


Phoenix

by Talithax



Series: Voller Kreis [5]
Category: Crashers - Fandom, Weiß Kreuz, Weiß Side B - Fandom
Genre: Angst and Humor, Explicit Language, Friendship, Healing, M/M, Series, Sexual Content, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-25
Updated: 2012-04-25
Packaged: 2017-11-04 07:15:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 296,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/391195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Talithax/pseuds/Talithax
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>~ Follows on from The Long Road Forward</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

=======  
Phoenix  
=======

~ Aya ~

“Thank you. Have a nice night.”

Inane pleasantries duly completed; I trail after the middle-aged businessman clutching his token gesture uninspired bouquet of flowers, and hover by the display of Singapore orchids as, fussing with his umbrella, he takes his sweet time exiting the shop. 

“Uh… Night then,” he blandly mutters as he shoves his bouquet under his arm, half crushing it. His umbrella finally to his liking, he opens the door and steps out into the darkened, rain-slicked street.

Biting back a sigh of relief; I hurry across to the door and, turning the sign around so that the word ‘Closed’ is now facing the front, quickly deadlock it. Once the circumventing of any more last-minute customers is taken care of, I pull down the blinds in both windows and head back to the counter. After not having been on my own like this for what’s slowly beginning to feel like forever now, the complete silence in the shop strikes me as blissful; and I mentally cross my fingers that no one realizes I’m currently alone, thus allowing me to continue closing up in peace. 

Unable to decide between putting the flowers away or counting the day’s takings in the register, I glance around the store, my gaze falling on the bare wall behind the counter. Still vaguely annoyed with myself for having been talked into selling the set of three laminated posters that had been displayed there, I scowl at the wall and shake my head. The original pieces are hanging in frames along the second floor corridor, granted, but that’s beside the point. Although they’d only been there for a fortnight, I’d grown accustomed to having the prints in the shop and -- regardless of Halloween having been and gone -- don’t like how out of place the now glaringly empty wall looks. They were, and there’s no two ways of looking at it, cute -- Snowball’s tail poking out of a black and orange ‘trick or treat’ bag, Mystique keeping guard over a bubbling cauldron, Tantomile posing on the back of a broomstick with her back arched and her tail bristling in the stereotypical witch’s cat pose -- and they’d brightened the store up considerably.

Despite telling the officious looking woman that they’d been a limited edition print run for charity and, subsequently, because they were the last set and we wanted to keep them, weren’t for sale, she simply refused to take no for an answer. In the end; just to get rid of her, I had no other real choice than to give in and let her have them. At a hugely inflated price, of course. I’d hoped that the hideously expensive price tag I’d placed on them would have been enough to put her off, but, no. Looking relieved at having gotten her way, she’d opened her purse and dropped the money on the counter even before I’d finished my spiel and that, pretty much, was just that. Bye-bye posters. Feeling as though I’d been steamrolled had nothing on it. 

Oh well. Michel and Yohji will no doubt be pleased even if I’m not. Michel because all the money from the prints is going to his pet project, the cat shelter; and Yohji because he can now blithely declare that his first ever, limited edition print was a sell out. Actually… looking at it that way, I suppose I have to be happy for both of them as, ultimately, the posters were doubly successful. Not only did they succeed in their aim of giving us something other than … the ‘Great Unknown’… to think about, but they also managed to rake in a surprising amount of money for the cat shelter. 

So, really, self-directed ire at having sold them aside, again, I suppose it’s a case of all’s well that ends well.

Whatever. I’m still annoyed though. Annoyed and left with a blank wall staring at me accusingly.

While peering at the wall critically, I rapidly reach the conclusion that leaving it empty is simply going to give Michel cause to repeat his plaintive bleat about wanting the ‘Chat Noir’ print from my room -- which is what he’d been on about before we hit on the idea of the posters and which, as I’ve already made a point of telling him, he’s getting over my dead body -- and try to work out what could be put up to replace the prints. 

Given how successful they were and how much money they raised for the cat shelter, I can’t help but think commissioning Yohji to come up with another series of ‘festive felines’ paintings might be the way to go; and, with this in mind, walk around the counter in order to check out the date on the desk calendar next to the register. Seeing that today is the ninth of November, I reluctantly accept that getting something out for Remembrance Day is never going to happen and, sighing, turn my attention to Thanksgiving. While, like Halloween, it’s not a British tradition, I’m sure our clientele will embrace it -- as they have everything we’ve done since throwing ourselves behind the cat shelter -- and make a mental note to tell Yohji about my plan the next time I see him. Unlike me, with any luck, he’ll even be able to think of something suitably cute and relevant to paint. American traditions never having really been my forte, all I can think of in relation to Thanksgiving is turkeys and, well… Who really wants a picture of a turkey on their wall? That said though, if anyone can make turkeys look even the slightest bit appealing then that person would have to be Yohji.

I…

Damn.

I’m doing it again, doing what we’ve all been doing for near on three weeks now. And that’s willingly, if not intentionally, allowing myself to get sidetracked. I mean… Turkeys! For Christ’s sake, to say I could care less about turkeys, cute or otherwise, is an understatement of absolutely monumental proportions. I *don’t* care about turkeys, or Thanksgiving and; hell, in the grand scheme of things whether the shop has artwork on its walls or not is hardly of pressing importance either. Not that anyone would know this by the way I’m currently carrying on.

Frowning, I run my fingers through my hair and, forcefully pushing the subject of artwork out of my mind, start counting the money in the register. In direct contradiction to my mood of only a few moments ago, I’m no longer so pleased to be on my own and wonder what everyone’s up to. It being a firm, set-in-concrete rule at the moment that no one’s to go anywhere without ensuring that everyone else knows where exactly it is that they’re going (and why… and how long they’re likely to be… and whether they absolutely, positively have to go…); I *know* that they’re all somewhere in the house and suddenly wish that someone -- *anyone* -- would take it upon themselves to come check on me.

I’m going great, I really am. Not content with fixating on turkeys of all things, I’m now feeling all fey and not in the mood for my own company. One thing’s for sure though, if the aim of whoever or whatever it was behind what happened in that warehouse in Wapping was to unsettle us and to get us jumping at shadows then, really, congratulations should seriously be in order as they’ve succeeded admirably. Over a fortnight has passed since that night and, despite our best efforts, we’re still one hundred percent in the dark in regards to… well… *everything*. 

We know that I walked into a trap, a trap that had been carefully constructed to prey on my worst fears, and that they -- the fucking mysterious, omniscient ‘they’ -- know far more about us than we do about them; but other than that… nothing… squat… fuck all. 

And God knows this conclusion hasn’t been reached through the lack of trying. We’ve, in fact, tried pretty much everything. Surveillance footage of all the ports into Britain have been run against databases from every legitimate crime fighting agency (Interpol to MI6 to the CIA and FBI) as well as those from the more… underground… operations. And, as we’ve come to expect, our searches haven’t come up with so much as a hint of anything useful; no recognizable faces or faces that correspond to any database, no known criminals with even the most tenuous of links to the sort of scum we’re usually pitted against.

No… nothing. 

For all their heavy-handed use of ‘in-your-face’ symbolism -- ankh, inverted cross, phoenix -- it’s almost as though they don’t really exist, that nothing ever happened. It’s as if, simply put, the five of us who were unfortunate enough to be involved that night merely experienced some sort of group hallucination that, to this day, we’re still laboring under the effects of. 

Well, that’s what it’s beginning to feel like anyway.

Yes, the warehouse was blown up using hi-tech, highly illegal explosives. No, said explosives *can’t* be traced.

Yes, the badly charred body of Victor Sorenson was found in the warehouse. No, there are no leads on either how he managed to get there *or* on the high caliber bullet that was dug out of what was left of his skull. According to all witness accounts; Sorenson left work the same time he always did and, after stopping in at Tesco’s to purchase a microwave dinner, was simply never seen again. It’s as though, after leaving Tesco’s, he disappeared off the very face of the earth.

Yes, the dance party, Heliopolis, *had* been held at the warehouse the night before. And, no, according to all the drug-fucked patrons the police have been able to track down, there was nothing out of the ordinary about the club at all. In fact, as one mental genius had put in his statement, ‘it was wicked, man, like, totally awesome’.

And… yes, I went entirely of my own free will to the warehouse. But, no, other than the dart embedding itself in my neck and Yohji getting me down from the scaffolding, I don’t remember a single, solitary thing about my time there. We know, courtesy of the physical evidence, that I was drugged, beaten, and… stripped… but, other than that we -- again -- know nothing.

Nothing!

We don’t know who set the trap… Or what actually happened to me… Or why the trap was so carefully planned and executed only to leave us all still alive… 

Hell. We don’t even know what the point of any of it was. Common sense -- along with some of the baser, more hard-earned facts of life -- dictates that they haven’t finished with us. I *think*, although I could be wrong, that this, by the use of the poor, unfortunate Victor Sorenson, who was a Krypton Brand subject, not a Weiss one, *is* aimed at all of us. But even knowing this is no help in figuring out their next move. If they simply wanted us dead then, and we’ve all begrudgingly accepted this already, we would be. End of story. Whoever they are seem to know just about everything there is to know about us and, as discomforting as the thought is, I’m confident that we’re only still alive because they want us to be.

Oddly enough, this particular thought doesn’t exactly fill me with what you’d really call a lot of joy. I don’t enjoy feeling as though I’m a sitting target and that is exactly how I feel at the moment. How, for that matter, we’re all feeling. While we may not know the who or the why, we nonetheless know that, in a sense, we’re under attack and that it’s only a matter of time before, surely, something is going to have to give… if not today, then tomorrow, or next week, or the week after that. 

Not surprisingly, it’s the not knowing more than the fear that is threatening to add up and get the better of us. Fear, we can -- and do -- deal with. It’s just one of those things that we’ve all come to take for granted. While not a claim to be proud of, fear is just one of those things we’ve all learnt, over time, to adapt to. Uncertainty though… That’s something else entirely. If we knew what was out there lying in wait for us then, afraid or not, we’d be able to come up with a plan to face and defeat it. Once more, it’s just one of those things. We do what we do because, simply, it’s our job; because, honestly, we’re good at it; and because, bluntly, the bottom line is someone has to.

Again though, it’s the not knowing more than anything else that’s affecting us. So far, the shock to our systems making us more aware of everyone’s moods and needs, we’ve been good and haven’t argued or lashed out at each other. Although on the one hand I very nearly chased Ken -- who, I think, has decided his current raison d’être is to ensure that I’m protected from not only outside threats but myself as well -- out of the store this afternoon with a pair of scissors; on the whole, we’ve been coping with our self-imposed lack of privacy remarkably well. If Ken hadn’t lapsed into his ‘oh God, I’m so bored’ routine today I’d even, having grown used to it, been prepared to tolerate his shadow-like company. 

The second he started to whine though, that was it, he was out of there. My last words shouted at him were that if anything happened to me he could feel free to tap dance all over my grave with my blessings and complete absolution. Sure he laughed at this; but it was forced, as though he was only doing it because he knew it was what I was expecting of him. 

If this uncertainty – feeling as though we’re merely existing in stasis waiting to be played with – continues then there’s no point in denying that things will more than likely start to get messy. We’re -- *family* -- friends and we all trust each other with our very lives; but, ultimately, we’re just not designed for floundering in the dark. We deal better with facts, with the carefully presented and confirmed black and white, than we do with anything else. Knowledge is, as someone once said, power. And, really, that’s what we operate under. Without knowledge or the perception of power, insecurities form.

Insecurities that we can’t afford to fall prey to. 

If we start to doubt each other or, rebelling against constantly having to report and confirm our whereabouts, start making a point of breaking the rules and going about our business without telling anyone first; then we may as well just raise a white flag from the roof and admit defeat now. 

And that, as far as I’m concerned, is simply not acceptable. Not by a long shot. I can honestly say that I’m – *finally* -- content with my lot and I haven’t finally reached this point in my life just to give it up without a fight… Whether that’s purely selfish of me or not, I *refuse* to just let go. Despite what happened in the warehouse (whatever that exactly might have been, of course… Not exactly surprisingly, it’s one of those things that I don’t care to think about in any great detail) and everything I’ve lost over time, I’m actually pleased with the current state of my life and, regressing once again to my old fallback mantra, will do whatever it takes to ensure that it’s able to continue. What’s more, for their own varying, personal reasons, I’d stake my life on everyone else feeling exactly the same way. 

So, when it comes – whatever it is, whatever form it takes – we fight.

We have to. It’s not like we have any another choice. 

“Hey, where’s Ken?” Yohji queries, sidling into the store and, regardless of the fact they don’t belong there, depositing his smokes and lighter on the counter. His hair damp and sticking up as though he’s just been pulled through a hedge backwards, it’s clear that he’s just come inside from having a smoke and, oblivious to his bedraggled state, smiles at me happily. “I thought he was meant to be helping you.”

“He went mad and I had to put him down,” I retort flatly, shooting Yohji an annoyed look for daring to interrupt my counting. While, yes, I’m… sort of… pleased to see him, I nonetheless would have preferred it if he could have waited until I’d finished calculating the takings. Now, fuck it, I’m going to have to start all over again.

Unmoved by my droll response, Yohji shakes his head and, his smile slipping, scowls at me. “Ken should be here helping you,” he repeats, drumming his fingers on the counter. “He knows as well as you do that…”

“I told him to go, okay?” I interrupt, not really wanting to hear Yohji lecture me on the perils of being on my own in these trying times and blah, blah, repeat ad nauseam blah. It’s not, after all, like I’d decided to go for a midnight stroll by my own around the docks or something equally as stupid and possibly as asking for trouble as that. “If you must know, it was either him or me as there was no way I was going to put up with him in one of his annoying, hyperactive moods. He wanted to go do a work out in the gym anyway.”

“He still shouldn’t have left you,” Yohji complains, sighing. “Come on, Aya. We have all these rules in place for a reason and…” Noticing the blank wall behind the counter, he trails off and gestures at it. “Er… What happened to the prints that were there? I didn’t think we were going to sell them.”

“We weren’t,” I murmur, shrugging as I mentally cross my fingers that the ‘Case of the Missing Prints’ are enough to deflect his attention from the fact I’m being so bold, so foolhardy, as to man the shop by myself. His concern is touching, granted, and I *know* -- oh God how I know -- that I was incredibly stupid going off to Wapping by myself the way I did… *but*… Goddamn it! I don’t, contrary to popular opinion, need a babysitter 24/7. 

“Then… ah… where have they gone?” Yohji queries, looking at me blankly as I give up for the time being and dump all the money back in the register and push the drawer shut. “Did you decide you were sick of them or something?”

“No, I wasn’t sick of them,” I reply as I walk around the front of the counter and aimlessly start to rearrange the display of what’s left of the potted gerbera. “I did, however, sell them.”

“But… Again, I thought they weren’t for sale,” Yohji responds slowly, his expression one of open curiosity as he wanders over to help.

“They weren’t, but this stupid woman wasn’t going to take no for an answer and, wanting to get her out of the shop, I sold them to her,” I mutter, batting Yohji’s hand away as he carelessly places two yellow gerbera next to each other.

“Oh.” Yohji gives me a hurt look that could either be caused by the fact that I don’t want his help or by the small matter of me taking it upon myself to sell the posters. It’s a tough call and not one I can be bothered clarifying. 

“For fifty pounds each,” I continue, separating the yellow gerberas by placing a brilliant red one between them. “Given that they’d been selling for only five pounds, really, I think congratulations should be in order.”

“I think perhaps you may be right,” Yohji grins, his expression brightening as he does the math in his head. “Have you told Michel yet? He’ll be rapt. You know how he feels about the cat shelter and how making as much money as he possibly can for it seems to be his holy grail at the moment.”

“No, I haven’t told Michel yet,” I reply, casting a critical eye over the gerberas before, satisfied, turning my back on them and facing Yohji. “Actually, I’d been thinking more along the lines of how you’ll now be able to say that your first ever print run was a complete sell out…”

“Oh wow, shit, you’re right,” Yohji responds, his smile further broadening as he glances again at the empty wall, this time, no doubt, seeing it in a whole new light. “I hadn’t thought of it that way but, yeah… wow. That’s pretty cool.”

“Mmm… Now, I was thinking, what with their success and…” The sound of heavy, hurried footsteps clattering up the stairs from the basement causing me to trail off, I share a worried look with Yohji and quickly make my way over to the door that leads into the storeroom. Reaching it just as Michel bursts into the room, I watch with mounting concern as, looking pale and clearly flustered, he hesitates over where to go -- up or out -- next.

“What gives with the Munchkin?” Yohji queries softly, joining me in the doorway. “He looks as though he’s just seen a ghost or something.”

“I wish I knew,” I reply, frowning as I step through the door and start to make my way across to Michel. “Hey… Michel… Are you okay?”

“Aya!” Michel exclaims nervously, backing away from me as, his mind suddenly made up, he bolts for the back door. “I… I just need some fresh air, that’s all…”

“But it’s raining cats and dogs out there,” Yohji comments, following me into the storeroom and moving towards the door. “C’mon, Michel. Having just come from out there myself, trust me, you so don’t want to go out there.”

Ignoring Yohji, Michel wrenches the door open and, with one last, panicked glance over his shoulder, lurches outside. I’m about to go out after him when, sensing a presence behind me, I turn around to find that Free has now joined us. “I’ll go after him,” he murmurs, placing his hand gently on my shoulder as he walks past. “He just needs a moment to calm down. That is all. You do not need to concern yourselves with Michel as he will be fine.”

“He didn’t look fine to me,” I retort, shaking off Free’s hand and giving him an expectant look. “Now, what gives, huh? Something’s clearly happened to upset him and I want to know what it was.”

“Yuki has discovered something on the computer that you all need to see,” Free replies, not exactly helpfully, as he heads towards the back door. “It not being the sort of thing that needs to be seen more than once, perhaps it would be prudent if you were to get Chloé and Ken before joining him in the basement.” With that, and without bothering to further elaborate, Free slips outside, pulling the backdoor softly shut behind him. 

“I can’t say I like the sound of this,” Yohji mutters drily, running his fingers through his hair and sighing. “You said Ken was going upstairs to the gym, yeah? How about I go fetch him while you hunt down Chloé?”

“Chloé was going to try and have a nap in the living room,” I murmur dully, an uneasy, discomforting feeling having settled over me at Free’s cryptic response. Whatever Yuki’s found out, going on the effect it had on Michel, can’t be good and I’d be lying if I said I particularly wanted to be brought up to speed on it. Having learnt that ‘want’ and ‘life’ don’t exactly go hand in hand a long time ago though, I know that I have to however and slowly start to make my way up the stairs. “But, yeah… You get Ken and I’ll get Chloé and we’ll meet in the basement in a minute or two,” I add over my shoulder, my lack of enthusiasm for what’s ahead coming through loud and clear in my voice. 

“Am I the only one who has a bad feeling about this?” Yohji sighs, continuing up to the next flight of stairs as, reaching the first floor, I turn down the corridor that leads to the living room.

A bad feeling? Oh, hell yeah. While -- thank God for small mercies -- we’re all here and in one piece, something’s happened that’s clearly upset Michel and there’s no way that can be good. No way at all.

Realizing that I’m quite close to literally dragging my feet, I straighten my shoulders and continue towards the living room. I’m nearly there when the door opens and Chloé steps into the corridor. Looking paler than usual -- which, as Yohji is prone to saying is no small achievement -- he looks at me and shrugs wearily. 

“Michel?” he murmurs questioningly, stretching as he stifles a yawn. “I… I thought I caught a flash of… distress… from him. Is he okay?”

“Yuki found something on the computer that spooked him,” I reply, peering at Chloé closely and not particularly liking what I’m seeing. Despite just having had a nap, he looks exhausted and not at all his usual, together self. “He’s outside with Free now though, so, really, you don’t have to worry about him.”

“Mmm… Not worrying is easier said than done these days,” Chloé responds dismissively, shaking his head. “What Yuki found, does it have something to do with…”

“I don’t know,” I interrupt, gesturing airily in the direction of the stairs, “but according to Free we’ve all got to join Yuki in the basement to find out. That’s why I’m here, actually, to get you.”

“Lead the way then,” Chloé mutters, sounding about as enthused by the prospect as I did talking to Yohji only a few moments ago. “To upset Michel like that… it has to be pretty bad.”

“We’ll know soon enough,” I sigh, reaching out and giving Chloé’s hand a squeeze. “C’mon, once we’ve found out you can go back to sleep. No offence, and I’m just getting in here before either Ken or Yohji do, you look like death warmed up.”

“Given that I feel like it too, no offence taken,” Chloé murmurs as he squeezes my hand back before letting it go and stretching again. “I… I just wish the rain would stop,” he adds quietly, starting slowly towards the stairs. “I keep thinking… hoping… that if it was dry I’d begin to feel a little better about things.”

“You can always go down to Kent,” I reply tentatively, not really wanting him to go -- not, basically, wanting anyone where I can’t quickly get to them -- but not wanting him to suffer like this if he doesn’t have to either. “Remember, it’s not raining down there and maybe…”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Chloé retorts matter-of-factly, cutting me off. “Granted, I may not be much use to anyone at the moment but I’m not leaving you. I… It’s okay, Aya. You don’t have to worry about me. I’m just a little tired and suffering from seasonal affective disorder or something…”

“Hmm…” Knowing there’s nothing to be achieved from pushing Chloé on the subject at the moment, I fall silent and wish, not for the first time, there was something I could do to help him. Of all of us, Chloé’s taking -- for reasons he’s very busily and stringently keeping to himself -- the giant question mark hanging over our heads the worst and, although I don’t let on for fear of further upsetting him, I can’t help but be worried by this. It’s clear that -- ill formed and baseless though they may be -- he’s got his own opinions in regards to what’s happening and, again for reasons he’s only begrudgingly sharing with Free because of their history together, they’re having a really bad effect on him. I’ve tried asking, but he always brushes me off with a wan smile and a blithe declaration that he’s fine and that there’s no reason, no reason at all, why I should be concerned about him. 

I beg to differ, there *must* be something if the only way he can sleep is with sunlight streaming through the windows or – oddly enough – with Free nearby, but what can I do? Free has even set up a mattress in his room but he still insists that there’s nothing wrong. 

Watching Chloé all but folding in on himself like this and not knowing what I can to do help is adding up to leave me feeling totally helpless, as though I’m failing him somehow. As uncomfortable as the thought is, this feeling, in turn, has made me realize that while I’m perfectly adept at *saving* people -- as in physically leaping in to save the day -- I’m next to useless when it comes to actually *helping* them. I *want* to be able to help Chloé, to be there for him and comfort him like he’s always been there for me, but I just don’t know how to do it. Every time I try I end up huffing in annoyance at not -- finding out what exactly is the matter --getting my way while Chloé just ends up getting more and more evasive and defensive. 

And on top of everything else this is pushing my buttons immensely. 

“God! Come on you two, get a freakin’ move on!” Ken exclaims loudly, his voice startling me slightly and causing Chloé to flinch as, bounding down the stairs, he lands with a ‘thud’ on the landing. “What do you reckon Yuki’s discovered, huh?” he continues, making ‘hurry up’ gestures. “I hope it’s a concrete lead that directs us straight to the bastards.”

“We should be so lucky,” Yohji mutters, rolling his eyes at Ken as he slips past him and down the stairs.

“Hey, they might think they’re smarter than us but the fuckers are gonna mess up sooner or later,” Ken retorts, hurrying after Yohji. “For God’s sake! Aya! Chloé! Come on. *Move*!”

“You getting the hint we’re not moving fast enough for Ken?” Chloé queries drily, glancing at me and shrugging.

“Subtle as a sledgehammer,” I sigh as I follow Chloé down the stairs, “that’s Ken all over. He… I suppose he could be right though and what Yuki’s found *may* be a lead.”

“Or it could just be another cryptic sign to lord their superiority over us and to lead us further into the dark,” Chloé replies flatly, entering the storeroom and taking a detour into the shop. Pausing in the doorway, I watch as he swiftly picks out a long stemmed red rose to toy with before walking back out of the store with a resigned sigh and heading down the stairs into the basement. 

Once again following after Chloé, I enter the basement and am about to ask Yuki what he’s found when, looking pained and almost as flustered as Michel, the adolescent brushes past me. 

“Hey, Yuki, you okay?” I query, only just reacting in time and, snagging my fingers in his sweater, causing him to come to a reluctant stop. “Free said you had something to show us on the computer and, well, we’re here now…”

“I’ve set everything up for you so that all you have to do is follow the logical sequence of the folders,” Yuki mutters, blinking at me owlishly and, squirming, breaking free of my hold. “Now, please, if you’ll excuse me; I’d like to go and see how Michel’s doing.”

Nodding my assent, I step back to allow Yuki access to the stairs and watch as, without so much as a backwards glance, he disappears up them. 

“Have I mentioned already that I’ve got a bad feeling about this?” Yohji drawls, glancing at the computer monitor before pulling a face and backing away from it. “There you go, Chloé,” he adds when no one sees fit to answer him, pointing at the chair in front of the computer, “knock yourself out. You heard Yuki, it’s all set up to go.”

“Me?” Chloé retorts, hitting Yohji lightly on the arm with his rose before quite pointedly strolling across to the armchair in the corner of the room and settling himself in it. “You know my opinion of computers at the best of times and I’ll tell you now that I have no inclination whatsoever of going anywhere near the thing at the moment.”

“You’re both as pathetic as each other; you know that, don’t you?” Ken scowls, throwing himself down in the chair and reaching for the mouse. “Here. I’ll do it. Happy now?”

“Like all my Christmases have come at once,” Chloé murmurs blithely, his attention seemingly focused far more on his rose than on the information Ken’s accessing on-screen. “Now, if you’d just be a dear and paraphrase it all for me I’ll be even happier still.”

“What did your last slave die of, huh? Honestly, Chloé, would it…”

“That’s enough,” I interject, giving Ken a warning look as he glances over his shoulder at me. “If Chloé doesn’t want to have anything to do with the computer then he doesn’t have to,” I continue as I move further into the room and position myself just behind Ken’s left shoulder. “Now, enough of this. I want to know what Yuki’s found out.”

“Yes, boss,” Ken mumbles, his full attention returning to the monitor and, with a few swift mouse clicks, opening up the first folder. “Hey, check it out. The Met have called a total media blackout. Look… ‘Due to the possible occultist nature of the crime a total lockdown has been called and should anyone breach this then they will have to answer to the highest authorities.’ Sounds… ah… great, doesn’t it?”

“Peachy,” Yohji sighs, perching on the desk next to the keyboard. “Gotta admit I’m particularly taken with the bit about ‘possible occultist nature’ myself. What do you think they mean by that, huh?”

“If we could make a point of concentrating for a couple of minutes we’d probably find out,” I reply flatly, leaning over Ken’s shoulder and reading the police report on the screen. “The victim, Oscar Kettleman, thirty-eight, of Shirley, Croydon…”

“Did you just say Oscar Kettleman?” Chloé interrupts, frowning as I look across at him. “If it’s the same man I’m thinking about, Aya, Ken, surely you remember him. He was the father of the Stanton’s last victim, remember? His son was called Gregory…”

“Oh shit, I remember now,” Ken replies, shaking his head and banging his hands down on the desk in temper. “Aya?”

“I remember, yeah,” I murmur, closing my hands around the back of Ken’s chair and only just resisting the urge to -- solely because there’s a slim chance it might make me feel better -- shake hell out of it. First Victor Sorenson and now Oscar Kettleman… Without actually hitting us directly they’re nonetheless making it hideously clear that they’ve got our number and that, simply put, there’s nothing they don’t know about us. “Gregory had blond hair like Michel’s and, because of this; Kettleman was really taken with him.”

“It was Kettleman who gave him Snowball, remember?” Chloé adds softly as he slumps further back in the armchair and listlessly strokes the petals of the rose. “He’d bought her for Gregory’s eighth birthday, only…”

“Only Stanton saw to it that he didn’t live long enough to enjoy her,” Ken finishes sourly. “Sick fucker.” Pausing, he shrugs expansively before continuing. “I… I don’t get it though. Why kill people we’ve helped? If they know so freakin’ much about us, why don’t they just blow us to hell? God knows it’d make more sense.”

“It’d make more sense for sure,” Yohji mutters, his expression one of concern even though he wouldn’t have known either Kettleman or his son if he’d fallen over them, “but it obviously wouldn’t be anywhere near as much fun. Whoever these bastards are, they’re probably sitting somewhere right now laughing themselves silly at how we’re stumbling around without a freakin’ clue.”

“Well, they’ve got a fucking warped sense of humor then,” Ken complains, scrolling further down the police report. “Oh… Oh My God! Aya? Tell me I misread that and it doesn’t really say what I think it says… Please. I just… Fuck. This honestly just gets better by the second.”

“No… No, you’re not hallucinating… unfortunately,” I murmur as, reading over Ken’s shoulder again, a shudder of revulsion slowly creeps over me. “The victim’s body,” I continue, forcing myself to read aloud from the screen for the benefit of Chloé and Yohji, “was found hanging by a noose from the uppermost pod of the London Eye…”

“You what?” Yohji exclaims, jumping off the desk and coming over to stand next to me in order to get a better look at the screen. “The London Eye, as in that massive white Ferris Wheel thing by the Thames? I mean, what the fuck?”

“Wait, it gets better,” Ken states, unconsciously drumming his fingers on the keyboard’s padded wrist rest as he reads. “Although, under the guise of maintenance so as not to unduly raise the public’s suspicions, extensive investigations have been carried out; there’s still no conclusive answer in regards to how the body came to be hanging from the pod. CCT footage shows no fire engines -- their ladders being one of the few things that would be capable of reaching that height -- or cherry-pickers in the area during the time leading up to the victim’s discovery and the coroner has already gone on record as saying it would be physically impossible for someone to climb up the ‘Eye’ carrying a man of the victim’s weight and general body shape.”

“And again I feel compelled to say… What the *fuck*?” Yohji mutters as he gives me a ‘help me, I’m confused’ look. “Surely they have to have *some* explanation as to how he managed to get there. I mean, it’s pretty freakin’ clear he didn’t just *fly* up there.”

“A… A telekinetic, if he… or… ah… she… was gifted enough, would be capable of getting him up there,” Chloé offers hesitantly, staring down at his rose as though he hopes it somehow holds all the answers we seek. “I’m not saying that’s a definite or anything, more a… suggestion.”

“You mean like that little short assed freak, Nagi?” Ken queries, swiveling around in his seat to face Chloé and scowling, both his distrust and dislike of the young telekinetic clearly not having lessened any over time.

“Nagi is one example, yes,” Chloé replies quietly, not bothering to look up from his rose. “Again, it’s just a suggestion. That’s all. For all we know he hid out in the pod and threw himself out of it when the ‘Eye’ had shut down for the night. Don’t forget how deeply the loss of his son had affected him.”

“And don’t you forget he was well on his way to Sumo-size when we met him seven months ago,” Ken mutters, his scowl well and truly still in place as he turns his attention once again to the computer screen. “Now, you’ve seen those pods. If he was capable of hiding out in one of them then I’m Mickey fucking Mouse.”

“It was just…”

“Yeah. A suggestion,” Ken interrupts dismissively, closing the police report and opening the next folder. “I heard you the first two times.”

“Play nice, you,” I hiss as I give Ken a light, warning smack on the back of the head. “Chloé’s suggestion was a good one and, contrary to what your opinions may be in regards to it, one that we need to keep in mind.”

“Whatever,” Ken mumbles, shrugging as the contents of the folder open up on screen. “A-ha. Here we go, this is more like it,” he exclaims enthusiastically, tapping his finger on the monitor. “Check it out, autopsy report and scene of crime photos. With any luck they’ll tell us more than the vague-as-fuck police report could.”

“Yeah, like Kettleman hadn’t lost any of the weight you were just talking about,” Yohji comments drily, pulling a face as Ken brings up the first photograph of an obese, naked man hanging from the ‘Eye’s’ highest pod. “Poor guy though. What a horrid, degrading way to go.”

“What gives with the gratuitous nudity though, huh?” Ken mutters, closing the photo and opening the next one, a close up taken with a telephoto lens. “Oh… Oh *shit*! Shit, shit, shit! I didn’t see that on the other photo, did you?”

“No,” I whisper numbly, staring at the screen and hardly believing my eyes. Just… fuck. “I… Uh… I suppose I can see the alleged link to the occult now.”

“Given that I’m quite confident that I *don’t* need to see it for myself,” Chloé murmurs, finally glancing up from his rose and giving me an inquiring look, “would someone care to give me the abbreviated highlights?”

“Big, fat, naked guy. White, inverted cross painted on his torso. Odd black *things*… hang on… they kinda look like flowers… embedded in his eyes,” Yohji replies, his voice totally devoid of emotion. “Trust me. It’s not a pretty sight.”

“I… I trust you,” Chloé responds faintly as a visible shudder works its way through his body. 

Not wanting to look at the picture anymore, I lean over Ken and, brushing his hand away from the mouse, close it down. “I think the flowers are meant to be poppies,” I state resolutely. With skill born of long practice, I ignore the annoyed look Ken gives me and open up the folder labeled ‘Autopsy Report’. “You know, poppies as in Remembrance Day poppies…”

“Remembrance Day poppies?” Ken echoes, batting my hand away and taking back control of the mouse. “Don’t tell me they’re wanting to throw yet another confusing-as-fuck reference at us? Hell. If they’re so fucking big on jerking us around why don’t they just show their ugly faces and get it over and done with?”

“Oddly enough, that’s a question I’d like nothing more than to be able to answer for you,” I sigh, tapping on the screen, indicating that I want Ken to open up the folder containing the autopsy photos first. “Here. Open up the one labeled ‘Effects’.”

Doing as asked, Ken brings the contents of the folder up on screen and, after quickly glancing through the thumbnails, opens up the photograph of the black poppies that had been buried in Kettleman’s eye sockets. 

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Yohji whispers, moving closer to me and resting his hand on my arm. “If that isn’t a sick fucking calling card then I don’t know what is.”

“The flowers… they… ah… are poppies,” I murmur haltingly. Glancing over at Chloé and almost feeling jealous of the fact that he’s had enough forethought, enough *sense*, to be distancing himself from what’s on screen, I forge ahead, “They’re also pitch black and… and an… *emblem* has been punched in each of their three petals. An inverted cross, an ankh, and what I think is the symbol for infinity.”

“Nice,” Chloé replies, wearily rubbing his temples. “I’m glad to see they’re still feeling creative.” 

“Creative? I suppose that’s one word for it,” Yohji interjects, closing his hand around my arm and pressing a little closer against my side. While I’m sure his gesture is meant to be comforting, I’m not quite sure *who* it’s meant to be actually comforting, me or Yohji. Part of me – the part that’s taking this chance to lean into his side slightly -- is quite ready to admit that we *both* probably need it at this point. 

“Bastards,” Ken snarls, closing the photo and, ignoring all the other thumbnails, opening up the actual autopsy report. “Oh… No… Just…no! Aya? You read it. Wanting my lunch to remain where it is, I can’t.” Backing his words up with actions, Ken jumps up from the chair and stalks across the room to lean against the wall next to Chloé. “Aya… Yohji… I don’t care. I’m just not freakin’ reading that.”

“I’ll read it,” I murmur unenthusiastically, placing my hand over Yohji’s and giving it a gentle squeeze before sitting down and reaching for the mouse. “Okay… Here goes,” I continue, quickly reading over the information contained on the screen and, like Ken, feeling my stomach slowly flip over in disgust. “Keeping it brief, Kettleman was dead before the drop from the pod broke his neck. Now… cause of death was actually choking and… Christ! He choked to death on Remembrance Day poppies, the cardboard ones the Royal Legion have been selling for the past couple of weeks as a fund raiser...”

“You mean he was force fed them,” Ken comments with a snort, slamming his elbow into the wall for emphasis. “I don’t know about you, but I can’t exactly see him *willingly* chowing down on a plateful of yummy red cardboard, now, can you?”

“Well, according to the autopsy report you’d be wrong,” I counter as I scroll down and skim through the doctor’s findings. “It appears that the body shows no particular signs of trauma… as you would expect to find if someone had had something shoved down their throat… and… and trace residue from the poppies has actually been lifted from his fingertips, indicating that he did indeed consume them, if you like, willingly.”

“He ate the damn things willingly?” Yohji queries incredulously, his hand this time finding its way to my shoulder and clamping down on it. “I mean, huh? I’m sure there are easier ways of killing yourself than, as Ken said, chowing down on a scrumptious serving of red cardboard Remembrance Day poppies.”

“Just as a telekinetic could have gotten his body up the ‘Eye’, a… a telepath could have made him eat the poppies,” Chloé interjects with a heavy, weighted sigh, avoiding my gaze when I jerk my head around to stare at him. “Again, it’s… It’s just a suggestion.”

“Great. Fucking lovely suggestion it is too,” Ken responds, glaring down at Chloé through narrowed eyes. “Not content with reminding me all about Nagi you then feel the urge to hit me with the fact that that fucker Schuldig is still slithering around too. Thanks. No. Seriously, Chloé, thanks a heap.”

“I…” Flinching, Chloé falls silent and, lowering his gaze, focuses his attention solely on his rose.

“In case I haven’t mentioned this yet, Ken,” I grind out, glowering across at him and only just controlling the desire to inform him in simple, easily-understood terms that if he directs one more sarcastic, dismissive response at Chloé then it’ll be more than his elbow I’ll be slamming into the wall. “If you haven’t got anything valid or decent to say then, please, don’t bother opening your mouth.”

While, yes, I have no doubt that Ken is as concerned about all of this as anyone, he at least -- unlike Chloé -- has been sleeping. Not only that but, having known him for so long now, Ken’s pretty much like an open book. If something’s bothering him then, as a rule, it doesn’t take much to find out what it is. Yes, he’s pissed and on edge but, cold hard facts of life aside, he’s essentially coping. Whereas Chloé … Well, let’s just say I’m beginning to think he’s taking obtuse and secretive to a whole new level. Unfortunately. 

“Fine,” Ken pouts, folding his arms across his chest and putting on a performance of leaning nonchalantly against the wall. “I’ll just zip it and stand over here all quiet and well behaved like. That’s assuming, of course, you wouldn’t rather I just trot off to my room?”

“Shut up, Ken,” Yohji snaps, a hint of exasperation entering his voice. “Please… Aya’s right, mouthing off and making sarcastic comments isn’t helping.”

“Excuse me for breathing,” Ken mutters petulantly before, with a shrug, placing his hand lightly on Chloé’s shoulder. “But… Okay… I’m sorry, yeah? I know I’m behaving like a pain in the ass but… come on! This is all just doing my freakin’ head in! But, yeah… Again, I’m sorry.”

“That’s better,” I state, nodding at Ken. “Now, back to what Chloé said about the possibility of a telepath having been involved in Kettleman’s death. Going on the, or perhaps it would be more apt to say *lack* of physical evidence, his point is a valid one and one that we’d be certainly foolish to discount.” 

“This just so keeps getting better and better,” Ken sighs, taking his hand off Chloé’s shoulder and running his fingers through his hair. “A telekinetic, a telepath, and enough ‘in-your-face-ha-ha-sucks-to-be-you’ symbolism to sink an oil tanker. Who ever it is that’s behind all this is a regular, all round, laugh-a-freakin’-minute. Now, pointless tirade over and done with, let’s move on. Having had, I feel, adequate time to digest and appreciate the whole poppy thing, is there anything else in particular we need to know from the autopsy report?”

“God, I hope not,” Yohji murmurs as, with one last, concerned glance at Chloé, who hasn’t bothered to lift his head since Ken’s little outburst, I turn back around to face the computer. “Aya?”

“Give me a minute,” I reply, scrolling through and speed reading the report. “The poppies are definitely the same as the ones the Royal Legion have been selling… The black ones too. Their coloring having come courtesy of a readily available brand of black spray paint that’s on sale in numerous shops across the country… No finger prints… No stray fibers… Time of death estimated to be three AM… Blood tests negative for either alcohol or drugs of any description…”

“What about the paint used for the cross on his torso?” Ken queries. “Not that I’m getting desperate or anything, but perhaps there might be a clue in that.”

“Hmm… Good point,” I respond, not feeling any great need to share Kettleman’s stomach contents with the others and skipping down to the paragraph on the cross. Reading it, my breath catches in my throat; and, without even really being aware of what I’m doing, I push back from the desk, nearly rolling the chair over Yohji’s foot in the process. “Oh… Fuck…”

“Aya?” Chloé murmurs hesitantly as, to my dismay, he stands up and slowly makes his way over to the computer. “What have you found?”

“You don’t want to know,” I reply, toying with the idea of simply turning the computer off before, to protect him, Chloé reaches it. Knowing that it really wouldn’t achieve anything, that he’s going to have to find out sooner or later anyway, I don’t move to act on the idea and; suddenly thankful for the comforting weight of Yohji’s hand on my shoulder, reach up to clasp it. “Chloé… Now, this may just be coincidental…”

“There’s nothing about this disgusting, gratuitous act that’s coincidental at all,” Chloé whispers, what little color he had in his face draining away as he reads what’s on screen. “Oh…” Backing hurriedly away from the computer and looking agitated; he spins on his heels and takes off in the direction of the door. “I… I’ve just got to get some fresh air.”

“Chloé!” Making to get up and go after him, I’m stopped by Yohji pressing down on my shoulder. “Let me go!” I declare, tetchy at Yohji for trying to stop me. “I want to go after…”

“There’s no need,” Yohji interrupts calmly, lessening his pressure on my shoulder as I slump back down in the chair, taken slightly aback by his response. “Think about it, Aya. He’ll run into Free and the others up there and they’ll look after him. To put it another way, he’ll be fine and you’re needed here.”

“Damn right you’re needed here,” Ken mutters, strolling across to join us in front of the computer. “For starters, if nothing else, you’ve gotta tell me what you found to freak Chloé out like that.”

Sighing heavily, and still feeling annoyed -- even if I *can* see the logic in Yohji’s reasoning -- at being made to just let Chloé go off like that, I glance up at Ken and pull a face. “The cross wasn’t marked onto Kettleman’s chest by paint at all,” I explain, the distaste I’m feeling coming through clearly in my voice. “It was actually a white paste… A white paste made from, amongst other things, the ground up bones of… ah… domestic cats, and… rosewater…”

~*~*~*~*~

The sound of footsteps coming down the stairs into the basement rousing me from my monotonous, going-nowhere-fast search for useful information relating to Kettleman’s death, I glance at the time in the lower right hand corner of the computer screen and bite back a sigh. Shit. How’d it get that late already? The last time I looked at the time was well over an hour ago, just after I’d told Yohji that I was finishing up for the night and would join him in the bedroom in ‘a couple of minutes’. 

And, yeah, so much for that spot of wishful thinking.

Fully expecting it to be Yohji who’s heading my way, I decide that a pre-emptive strike may be in order and quickly turn off the computer monitor. Despite just having wasted seven hours staring at the damn thing, I have nothing to show for it and, better late than never, the idea of crawling into bed suddenly strikes me as a good one. Actually, make that a *damn* good one.

“Yeah, yeah. I’m coming. See? The computer’s already off,” I mutter, hoping to deflect Yohji’s obvious -- ‘what the fuck happened to you?’ -- question and, stretching, swivel around to face the door. To my surprise, and for all of a fleeting second, dismay -- uh-oh, now what? -- I find not Yohji but Michel and Yuki both standing in the doorway. Dressed for bed and looking as though they’ve just woken up, they pad silently into the basement and fix large, worried eyes on me.

Quite confident that I don’t really want to know what’s bothering them, I nonetheless force myself to smile reassuringly and gesture them closer. “Yuki? Michel?” I murmur gently, “What’s the matter? If you’re worried about Free and Ken then, having spoken to Ken ten or so minutes ago, I’m here to tell you now that they’re both fine. Not having found anything out from the scene itself, they’re now going over reports at New Scotland Yard and hope to be home within the next few hours.”

What Ken actually said was that the detectives assigned to the case wouldn’t know if their backsides were on fire and that it would take nothing short of a miracle for the stupid fuckers to ever get anywhere with the investigation. Oddly enough however, I don’t really think either Michel or Yuki need to know Ken’s take on the local police force and decide to keep his specifics to myself. Having the expletive laden diatribe spat down the phone line at me was bad enough without having to share it with anyone else.

“It’s not Free or Ken that we’re worried about,” Yuki replies solemnly, chewing on his bottom lip as Michel nods in agreement. “It’s actually…”

“Chloé,” Michel interjects, his eyes widening even further as, staring at me, he tries to gauge my reaction to their little bombshell. “It’s Chloé we’re worried about.”

Muttering ‘join the club’ clearly not being the way to proceed here, I nod slowly. “Go on,” I prompt wearily, focusing on Yuki because he’s the one I know who’ll give me the bare bones of their concerns as opposed to flying off on emotional tangents like Michel would. “Don’t forget however that Chloé’s had a nasty shock today and, because of this, probably just needs to come to terms with it all.”

“We’ve all had a nasty shock today,” Yuki replies matter-of-factly with a small shrug. “Kettleman’s manner of death and the heavy-handed use of symbols which, as we’re all aware, appear to be directed specifically at Krypton Brand, has upset everyone, Aya. That said, it’s clearly effecting Chloé in particular and, again, we’re worried about him. Not only did he refuse all offers of dinner but he’s now sitting, after having apparently fallen over the coffee table, the sound of which, incidentally, was what woke us, on the living room floor drinking what looks to be champagne. We tried asking if he was okay but he wouldn’t reply.”

“Aya,” Michel murmurs pleadingly, “please, will you go and see if he’s all right? Free’s not here and you’re the only other person he listens to.”

“Of course I’ll go to him,” I sigh, standing up and, hoping that Yohji isn’t expecting me any time soon, scowling up at the ceiling. Goddamn it. If Chloé’s so far gone that he’s allowing his defenses to slip around Yuki and Michel then, and there’s no other way of looking at it, he’s really done it this time. “Now, how about the pair of you returning to bed, yeah?” I continue as, looking as though a considerable weight has been lifted from his shoulders, Michel wraps his arms around my waist and hugs me tightly. Used to, if not exactly welcoming, his random displays of affection, I return his hug loosely and ruffle his hair. “It’s okay, Michel. I’m sure that Chloé’s fine.” 

“I knew we could count on you, Aya,” he murmurs lightly. A degree of his usual cheerfulness already having been restored, he releases me and moves towards the door with a skip in his step. “Come on, Yuki, let’s go back to bed. Aya will look after Chloé and everything will be fine.”

“I’m sure it will be,” Yuki replies slowly, hesitating for a second before giving me a quick, perfunctory hug. Releasing me even before I’ve had time to hug him back and looking embarrassed, he then walks over to join Michel in the doorway. “Good night, Aya. I’m sure that Chloé will listen to you and I thank you for taking the time to hear our concerns.”

“Thank you for bringing them to me,” I respond, picking my empty mug up from next to the keyboard and trailing after Yuki. “Please though, I want you both to go back to bed and not to worry about Chloé.”

“Not worrying these days seems a little easier said than done,” Yuki murmurs, echoing Chloé’s earlier comment. “Good night, Aya,” he adds when he reaches the storeroom and, with a final glance over his shoulder, follows Michel up the stairs.

“Good night, Yuki, Michel,” I call out, quickly ensuring the storeroom is locked up tight before making my way up to the first floor. Pausing on the landing, I contemplate checking in on Yohji just to tell him that I hopefully won’t be long but decide against it, not wanting to waste any more time than I have to. Besides, the way I see it, if he’s desperate to know my whereabouts he can always come looking for me. There’s a chance Yohji may not like it, but in this instance Chloé, who’s always been there when I’ve most needed him, just has to come first.

Detouring through the kitchen, I deposit my mug on the sink before -- not for the first time wishing I could just take a stiff drink to brace me for what’s to come -- continuing towards the living room. Finding the door closed, I don’t bother knocking and, opening it, walk straight in. Even though Yuki had said that Chloé was sitting on the floor, the scene that greets me still manages to come as something of a shock and, unable to help myself, I sigh heavily.

Here we go. Where’s Free when you need him, huh?

Dressed in gray, vaguely metallic looking silk pajamas and the most… stunning… robe I’ve ever seen, Chloé sits with his legs stretched out in front of him and his back against the wall next to the empty fireplace. In his right hand he holds a crystal champagne flute and on the floor next to him is a half empty bottle of French champagne. As Yuki had indicated, the coffee table isn’t in its customary position and I don’t even want to think about what may have caused Chloé to trip over it. My interest in the coffee table though, I have to say, is negligible compared to wanting to know more about his robe and, perhaps more to the point, why I haven’t seen it before. Black velvet and apparently, although it’s hard to tell what with the way he’s sitting, ankle length; I can’t quite decide what detail I’m more taken with - the red satin lining or the red, exquisitely embroidered roses that run along both the hem and cuffs, and wonder where he happened to get it from. 

Noticing me staring at him, Chloé raises the glass and silently toasts me with it.

“Having fun?” I query flatly, pulling the door shut and moving further into the room. Not quite knowing what to do with myself and not wanting to appear as though I’m crowding him, I glance around and decide to take a seat on the edge of the armchair. Watching me from beneath his fringe, Chloé waits until I’m seated before shrugging and putting his glass down.

“I’m having a complete ball,” he murmurs, drawing his knees up and folding his arms around them. “Can’t you see? I’m a regular laugh-a-minute, the very life and soul of the party.”

“Mmm… And I’ve just taken over Ken’s earlier claim to fame of being Mickey Mouse,” I reply as I shake my head. “Come on, Chloé. Are you going to tell me what the matter is or are you going to turn what I told Yuki and Michel into a lie?”

“Yuki? Michel?” Chloé queries, lifting his head and giving me a startled, surprised look. “What did you tell them? I… I thought they’d gone to bed.”

“They had, but your spectacular, coffee table-inspired crashing to the floor woke them,” I explain softly, watching Chloé intently. “They then, after you ignored their offers of assistance, came to me. Now, given that I think they’ve already got enough to worry about at the moment, I told them that you’d be fine and that they don’t have to worry about you. Needless to say I don’t wish for this to become a lie.” 

“They… They came here?” Chloé frowns, sitting up a little straighter and brushing his fringe out of his eyes. “I… I don’t recall seeing them.”

“They said you ignored them,” I respond quietly, getting up from the chair and going across to sit on the floor next to Chloé. Settling myself cross-legged, I place my hand lightly on his arm and squeeze it gently. “Chloé… Come on… Whatever it is that’s bothering you, you’ve got to pull yourself together. If not for yourself then for Michel and Yuki. While I might hate seeing you like this, it’s not something they *need* to see and, again, I want you to know that I’m here for you if you need me.”

“I ignored them?” Chloé murmurs, glancing down at my hand on his arm so as to avoid meeting my eyes. “Really? As I just mentioned, I don’t even remember seeing them.”

“Mmm… You ignored them, just as you’re now ignoring my offer to help,” I reply, hating that I don’t really know what to do, what to say. Yohji always knows what to say. Hell, when it comes to anyone other than himself, so does Chloé. Me though… Despite having been on the receiving end of many well-meaning ‘chats’ in my time, I’m next to hopeless when it comes to conveying what it is I’m feeling and wanting to achieve. 

To put it another way, I think it’s fairly safe to say that I’d probably starve to death before getting a job as a guidance counselor or as an inspirational speaker.

And yes, perhaps more so than ever, I accept this as a failing. A somewhat big one.

“If they were here I didn’t see them,” Chloé repeats faintly, hugging his knees. “And… And I’m not ignoring your offer to help. It’s just… Well, I wish you weren’t having to see me like this and, short of praying for the ground to open up and swallow me, I don’t know what to say to you.”

“You can start by explaining how you fell over the coffee table and why you’re now sitting on the floor drinking champagne,” I offer, my fingers lightly stroking the soft velvet of his robe. “How does that sound?”

“Just peachy,” Chloé mutters as he shifts a little closer to me without, I think, conscious thought. “Oh God! Did I just say ‘peachy’?” he continues, glancing up at me and shaking his head. “If so, I’m telling you now that if you decide to take it upon yourself to inform me that Yohji is having a negative impact on my English skills then, seriously, I’m never going to talk to you again.”

“Do you honestly think I’d be so rude as to say something like that?” I reply, laughing both at Chloé’s use of the word ‘peachy’ and his reaction to it. “If it makes you feel any better, and I’ll deny this if I ever hear you passing it on, I caught myself saying it to a customer the other day…”

“Oh dear,” Chloé murmurs, finally lifting his head and managing to dredge up a wan smile. “He really does have that sort of ‘take over’ personality, doesn’t he?”

“He’s hard to ignore, that’s for sure,” I respond lightly, relieved that Chloé already seems a little more with it. “You get used to it though.”

Nodding, Chloé unfolds himself slightly and places his hand over mine. “You know I’m happy for you, the pair of you, don’t you?” he whispers. “Whatever it is that’s coming… at least you’ve got each other to turn to and… and this can only work in your favor. You’re lucky to have found each other again, Aya, and I want you to promise me that you won’t do anything to mess it up. Whatever the future might hold, you’ve got to put Yohji first, you…”

“Stop with the lecturing already,” I interrupt, having a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach that I know where Chloé is going with this and not wanting to hear it. “Listen to me, Chloé. I love Yohji, yes, but that doesn’t stop me from caring about everyone else in this house or from wanting to do whatever I have to in order to protect them. If you need me, I’m here for you and, believe me, I’ll always be here for you.”

“But…”

“I don’t want to hear it,” I state adamantly, cutting him off. “In fact, to borrow from your current line of twisted logic, the more you argue with me the longer you keep me from Yohji… In other words, give it up now. I know you’re only wanting to help me but, and please don’t take this the wrong way, you’re the one in need of help here, not me.”

“I don’t need help,” Chloé sighs, giving me a resigned, beseeching look. “I’m just sitting here enjoying a glass… or five… of champagne and minding my own business. While I’m sorry that I ignored Yuki and Michel, rest assured that you didn’t tell them a lie and that I am indeed just fine. Or, as we were just discussing, ‘peachy’ even.”

“Excuse me for begging to differ,” I murmur, shrugging casually. “Now… You don’t have to tell me that… the specifics… of Kettleman’s death have upset you, hell, they’ve upset everyone, but, come on… This… this sitting on the floor and drinking isn’t right and you know it.” Pausing, I tighten my fingers around Chloé’s arm, forcing him to continue to meet my gaze. “Chloé… Please. Talk to me.”

“It’s just, as you said, the manner and disgusting specifics of Kettleman’s death that’s getting to me,” Chloé mutters, the slightest hint of defensiveness entering his voice. “Well, that and the damn rain. Look, Aya, I’m sorry for upsetting Yuki and Michel, and I’m sorry for putting you out and causing you to worry but… but it’s nothing, okay? I came out here because I wanted a change from my bedroom and I tripped over the coffee table because I wasn’t looking where I was going. That’s. All.”

“They also mentioned that you didn’t eat dinner,” I reply, wearily accepting that I’m not going to get anywhere with this and moving my hand off Chloé’s arm. “Now…”

“If you must know I have since eaten an entire block of chocolate,” Chloé interrupts dully, curling his fingers around his arm on the spot where my hand had just been. “So, you see, I *have* eaten.”

“Mmm… Chocolate and champagne, *very* healthy,” I sigh, levering myself up and extending my right hand. “Okay. Enough of this. While I can accept that there’s nothing I can say to you that will get you to open up to me, I’m not leaving this room until you’ve agreed to go to bed. It’s late, you’re already dressed for bed and, well, I’m not going to turn in until you do.”

“Blackmail, how lovely,” Chloé replies drily, nonetheless taking my hand and allowing me to help him to his feet. “Happy now? I’m going to be a good boy and obediently trot off to bed.”

“Ecstatic,” I mutter, keeping a hold of his hand and leading him out of the living room. “Now, given that it’s doubtful Free will be back for at least another couple of hours, would you like me to stay with you? Oh, and before you tell me that you don’t need a babysitter, let me remind you that that’s *my* line and that I don’t take too kindly to anyone else using it.”

“Uh… Thank you for the offer,” Chloé murmurs, sounding a little surprised as, flicking the light off, he follows me out of the room. “I think I’ll be fine though. Seriously. Now that I’m upright again I’m suddenly reminded of how tired I am and how, yeah, bed seems like a really good idea.”

“Good,” I state, releasing Chloé’s hand as we reach the stairs and gesturing him up them. “Go on, then. If you change your mind though… well… you know where to find me.”

Nodding, Chloé kisses me lightly on the cheek before starting slowly up the stairs. Watching his incredible robe fan out around him, I trail my fingers down his back as he passes and, remembering my earlier curiosity about it, just have to say something. “Hey,” I call out, following him up the stairs. “Before I forget, your robe’s gorgeous. I’ve never seen anything quite like it.”

“It’s a one-of-a-kind,” Chloé replies, reaching the second floor and, glancing over his shoulder, smiling softly at me. “Faith designed it and had it made as a gift. Like the items you keep in that black lacquer box in your room, it’s very special to me.”

Faith? Who the hell is Faith?

“Faith? Who’s…”

“Good night, Aya,” Chloé murmurs, hugging his robe around him and, before I have time to finish my question, disappearing up the next flight of stairs.

My curiosity piqued, I contemplate going after him but decide against it when, instead of an echoed ‘good night’, a massive yawn comes out of my mouth when I open it instead. 

Reluctantly accepting that hounding Chloé probably wouldn’t achieve anything anyway, I acknowledge my body’s fairly obvious request for rest and wander down the corridor to my room. Passing Yuki’s room on my way, I see that his door is open and this in turn tells me that he’s spending the night in Michel’s room again. While far more for Michel’s benefit than his own, the fact that he’s putting himself out to help someone else is yet more proof of the current, oppressive strain we’re all under. Of us all, Ken’s the only one who’s still managing to make it through every night on his own. Then again, given that I’m not exactly convinced that he’s been sleeping much anyway, as achievement’s go this one probably isn’t worth much at all.

Ken’s not sleeping, Yuki’s sleeping in Michel’s room to be near his friend and to try and offer him comfort if he needs it, Free’s camped out on Chloé’s floor for the same reason, and I’m…

Well. I’ve got Yohji.

Again.

Entering the bedroom, I find Yohji sitting -- propped up by every single pillow I own -- in bed, the book he’s currently reading held loosely in his hands and Tantomile curled in a tight ball on his lap. Despite everything that’s going on, he paints such a picture of mundane domestic bliss that I can’t help but smile.

Putting the book down, Yohji wags a disapproving finger at the clock on the bedside table and raises his eyebrow. “You have an odd definition of ‘a couple of minutes’,” he comments, sitting up a little straighter and causing Tantomile to wake up and shoot him an annoyed look for daring to disrupt her sleep. “I was beginning to consider sending out a search party.”

“Sorry,” I mutter, sinking down on the edge of the bed and tugging my boots off. “I suppose I just got caught up in what I was doing and lost track of time.”

“Find anything out?” Yohji queries, magnanimously pushing a couple of pillows over to my side of the bed. “Given how long you’ve been at it and how knackered you look, surely you must have found *something* we can use.”

“Knackered?” I snort, staring at my feet and trying to decide whether I have it in me to bother showering or not. A shower *would* be good, yeah, but so would crawling straight into bed… Decisions, decisions. “You’re really getting a hang of this whole English as is spoken in England thing, aren’t you?” I add, stifling another yawn and rapidly making the snap decision that, not wanting to fall asleep in the shower, going straight to bed is definitely the way to go.

“When in Rome… or in this case, London… and all that,” Yohji replies, gently pushing Tantomile off his lap and crawling across the mattress in order to wrap his arms around my waist and press up tightly against my back. “Now… Back to you, did you find anything out?”

“Hmm… I found out that Ken thinks the Metropolitan Police are beyond incompetent and that a dinner of chocolate and champagne doesn’t exactly do a lot for Chloé’s health, temper, or sanity,” I murmur, relaxing into Yohji’s embrace as -- heaven forbid she miss out on anything -- Tantomile meanders over to head butt my elbow in search of a pat. “Other than that, as fucking usual, I discovered nothing.”

“What’s the matter with Chloé?” Yohji asks softly, resting his chin on my shoulder and, I suspect for no other reason than he can, hugging me just that little bit tighter. “Don’t tell me he’s freaking out again? If he is, I have to say I’m glad that you were the one to encounter it this time as, honestly, last time I had no Goddamn idea what I was supposed to do with him.”

“What do you mean by ‘again’?” I demand, pulling away from Yohji and stumbling to my feet. Fuck! If people don’t stop attempting to protect my allegedly delicate sensibilities from things *they* think I’m better off not knowing then, I swear to God, things are going to take a turn for the worse around here. Just… Aaargh! “You’ve seen him like this before and you never said anything? Yohji! I…”

“It was the morning after what happened in Wapping and he didn’t want you to know about it,” Yohji interrupts, giving me an odd look and shrugging. “Besides, after chasing him off to bed, the next time I saw him he seemed fine.”

Not. Good. Enough. Not even close, in fact.

“Chloé’s my friend and I’ve got a right to…”

“If you got off your high horse for a tick you’d also realize that Chloé’s got a right to privacy and that if he doesn’t want to tell you something he doesn’t have to,” Yohji states, cutting me off again and, swinging his legs over the edge of the mattress, standing up. “C’mon, Aya. Chill. You’ve got enough to worry about at the moment without getting your boxers in a knot over Chloé flaking out over a fortnight ago. Just think about it for a second.”

“I want to be able to help him,” I grouse, sighing as I make my way across to the chest of drawers. “It’s all right for you, Yohji. You always know what to say, what to do, when it comes to people, but I don’t and… Fuck it! It makes me feel helpless.”

And if there’s one thing I hate, particularly in relation to me more than anyone, then it’s feeling helpless.

“Have you ever stopped to think that just by being here, and by making it clear he… or any of us, for that matter… only has to ask for your help and you’ll do whatever you can, might just be worth something all in itself?” Yohji replies soothingly as wanders over and once again drapes himself around me as I pull a clean pair of pajamas out of a drawer. “You’re too hard on yourself, my love. As for always knowing the right thing to say? Me? Hell no. You must have me mixed up with someone else.”

“You’ve always struck me as being someone who has all the answers and who knows best when to share them,” I murmur. Dropping my pajamas on top of the chest of drawers I turn around and settle my arms around Yohji. “I… I’m sorry for snapping at you, okay? I didn’t mean to and I apologize. It’s just… You know… Things just can’t continue like this. If only…”

“We knew who was behind it all and could meet them face on,” Yohji finishes for me, kissing my forehead. “I know, I know. You don’t have to say it as it’s how we’re all feeling. Come on though, it’s nearly one in the morning which, by my reckoning, is well past bedtime.”

“What you really mean to say is that I may as well go to bed seeing as there’s nothing else I can currently do,” I sigh, resting my forehead against Yohji’s for a few seconds before pulling back and picking up my pajamas. “Okay though, you win. Let’s go to bed.”

“Victory is so sweet,” Yohji smirks, walking back over to the bed and quickly straightening it up before climbing under the covers and settling himself. “Now, come on, get moving,” he adds, glancing across at me and gesturing towards the en suite. “Unless, of course, you’d like a hand getting changed.”

“You have a one track mind,” I retort, shaking my head as I walk into the bathroom. Although my natural, beaten in to me, instinct is to close the door, I force myself to keep it open -- yes, Yohji’s seen it all before, yes, I trust him, but… too open… too vulnerable -- and quickly change into my pajamas. This done, I then clean my teeth and, yawning again, return to the bedroom. Glancing at the bed and confirming that Tantomile’s sprawled out near Yohji’s feet and that I’m not at risk of sitting on her when I get in; I turn the overhead light off and, suddenly exhausted, although I feel as though I’ve done nothing of note all day, clamber into bed.

“Come here, you,” Yohji murmurs, rolling across the mattress and reaching for me. “We’ll get through this, Aya… Whatever it is. You’ve just got to believe in and draw strength from those around you. I… I know I do.”

“Mmm…” Draping my leg over Yohji’s, I press as tightly against him as I can manage and close my eyes. “So do I…” I whisper. “So do I.”

Comfortable, if not exactly feeling any better about things, I concentrate on the reassuring sound of Yohji’s breathing and drift off to sleep.

~*~*~*~*~

A crashing sound… coming from somewhere above my head, I think… waking me, I open my eyes and groggily reach over Yohji to turn on the lamp. A dull light immediately bathing the room in a golden glow, I blink at the time on the antique alarm clock I keep on the bedside table and, when it finally permeates through my sleep-fuddled brain that it’s only just gone three AM, groan.

Wonderful.

I’ve only been asleep for two hours and, although dawn is still hours away, I’m already awake because I heard a…

*Thud*.

“What the…?” Yohji moans, opening his eyes and giving me a look that I have to say is more parts annoyance than either concern or curiosity. “If that’s Ken and Free heralding their return then I’m going to fucking kill them.”

“It sounded like it came from directly above our heads,” I murmur, staring dubiously at the ceiling for a moment before shrugging and swinging my legs over the edge of the mattress. “Which, if I’m right and it did, means it probably came from Chloé’s room…”

“You’re not saying you think he fell out of bed, are you?” Yohji yawns as he struggles into a sitting position. “If he did, then I’m here to agree with you now, chocolate and champagne *really* don’t agree with him at all.”

“Whatever it is he’s doing, I’m going to see if he’s okay,” I reply as I stand up and stretch. Glancing across to the door, I find Tantomile already sitting by it, her tail switching agitatedly, as she waits impatiently to get out. “Hey, check it out,” I add, gesturing towards the door as, stumbling inelegantly out of bed, Yohji gets up and starts looking around for his robe. “Tantomile’s already anxious to get out which, I suppose, means the odd noises *have* to be coming from Chloé’s room.”

“You do, I hope, realize that this whole communicating with felines thing *still* slightly freaks me out,” Yohji mutters, spotting his robe under my desk -- and how it managed to get there in the first place isn’t even something I care to contemplate -- and retrieving it with a triumphant smile. “Ha! I knew it had to be around here somewhere.”

“You’re a slob. You know that, don’t you?” I respond with a glance down at my pajamas. Seeing as it wouldn’t cover anything else anyway, I decide that I don’t need to follow Yohji’s lead and get my robe out of the cupboard and start to walk towards the door. “Actually, what are you doing up anyway? You don’t need…”

“Chloé’s my friend too,” Yohji interrupts, pulling his robe on and running his fingers cursorily through his hair. “Besides, you know, if he has just fallen out of bed I feel as though I need to be on hand to reiterate his stupidity to him.”

“A slob *and* charming,” I retort, shaking my head as I open the door, allowing Tantomile to bolt between my legs and out into the corridor. “Your multi-tasking abilities are a true treat to behold.”

“Mmm… But you love me nonetheless,” Yohji murmurs, flashing me a smug smile as he sidles past and through the door. “Now, while I’ll admit it was kind of you to hold the door open for me, are you coming or what?”

“Just keep telling yourself that I love you, Kudou,” I mutter, stepping into the corridor and starting to walk in the direction of the stairs. “I’m warning you now though, if Chloé, for whatever reason, is in a bad way then you’re not to laugh at him. I already came close to smacking Ken one today for having a go at him and I don’t really want to have to feel the same way towards you.”

“If he really is in a bad way then I’d like to think you know me well enough to not even have had to make that sort of threat,” Yohji replies softly, giving me an odd, vaguely hurt look. “Of course I won’t say anything to upset him. Again, although I mightn’t have known him for as long as you have, Chloé’s still my friend and the last thing I’d want to do is, well, hurt him or anything.”

Damn. And here I am, once again, being left with the feeling that I never should have opened my stupid mouth.

“Sorry,” I whisper, coming to a stop at the bottom of the stairs in order to turn around and cup Yohji’s cheek in my palm. “I didn’t mean to offend you… But… See what I was saying about being totally hopeless when it comes to things like this?”

“You’ll be fine,” Yohji replies, giving my palm a kiss before smiling and gesturing up the stairs. “Now, mush. If we’re not careful Chloé will already be asleep by the time we get there and then, just for a change, he’ll think *we’re* mad.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I sigh as I move up the stairs. “I don’t know about you, but I know *I* could live with him being asleep already.”

“Wimp,” Yohji quips while giving me a light smack on the ass as he starts up the stairs behind me. “Anyone would think we’re heading into some sort of gladiator type arena to fight for our lives the way you’re carrying on.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t mind *that*,” I retort, stepping onto the third floor, “as that’s something I know I can do. This, however…”

“And you’ll *so* be fine,” Yohji interjects, placing both hands flat on my back and all but literally propelling me towards Chloé’s room. “Hell, I might be a charming slob or whatever it was you were calling me a moment ago, but at least I don’t worry too much.”

“Mmm…” Thankful to Yohji for having come with me but not knowing how to say it, I spin around and plant a light kiss on his cheek before, after giving it a token knock, pushing Chloé’s door open.

And… Shit. 

After taking it all in -- the crystal vase that had been on the bedside table lying, shattered, in pieces all over the carpet, and Chloé, on his knees in the middle of the glass and the roses and the water, looking around him helplessly -- I put two and two together and, having been there myself, come up with a nightmare being to blame.

Wake with a start, lash out in haste -- to banish the suffocating darkness, to reassure yourself that you’re somewhere safe and not still ensnared in your dreamscape or, *worse*, whatever piece of reality that it’s based on -- switch on the bedside lamp, lurch out of bed… Yeah. Definitely a nightmare. One of those kick ass ones that makes you wish you’d never shut your eyes, that, really, you could do away with the risk of sleep at all.

Numbly shaking my head, I share a worried, ‘oh fuck’, look with Yohji and step hesitantly into the bedroom. Tantomile, having not only beaten us to the room but also having somehow managed to push her way through the closed door, sits on the edge of the -- hastily gotten out of and crumpled -- bed, Mystique by her side. Despite being clearly distraught, Chloé’s control hasn’t completely deserted him and I can tell, just by the way the cats are loitering with intent on the bed and staring at him unblinkingly, that he’s somehow keeping them on the mattress, away from the glass.

“I’ll take shattered and inanimate, you take shattered and… barely… animate,” Yohji whispers, giving my shoulder a reassuring squeeze before turning around and stepping back through the door into the corridor. “I’ll be back. I’m just going to get something to mop up with.”

Unable to shake the feeling that Yohji’s just made a terrible mistake, that -- the fact I’m close to Chloé having absolutely nothing to do with it -- he’d be the one far more likely to help him than me; I bite back a sigh and gingerly make my way across the sodden carpet to Chloé. Nearing him, I note with dismay that his hands and feet are covered in small cuts from the shards of glass and, again, can’t for the life of me work out what I’m going to be able to do to comfort him.

Fuck. Again, this is just so not my forte. 

“Come on,” I murmur lamely, holding out my hand and waiting for Chloé to take it. “Let’s get you cleaned up and back in bed, yeah? Don’t worry about the mess. Yohji’s going to take care of it.”

Jerking his head up and blinking as though surprised to see me hovering over him, Chloé shakes his head and makes no move to take my hand. “I’ll take care of it,” he whispers in German, picking up a piece of glass and, not knowing what to do with it next, just staring at it. “It’s my mess. Just mine and nobody else’s and… and it’s only fitting that I take care of it. I… I’ll be fine. I don’t want to cause anyone any bother.”

“Bit late for that,” I mutter, switching to German in the vain hope that it might help get through to him. “Come on, Chloé. I want you to get up and come into the bathroom with me so I can look at your cuts. Be it your very own personal mess or not, Yohji’s going to clean it up and I don’t want you worrying about it.”

“But…” Trailing off, Chloé lets the piece of glass slip from his fingers and, after a moment’s hesitation during which I take it upon myself to shove my hand directly in front of his face, places his hand in mine. “Nightmare… Sorry. I had a nightmare,” he murmurs disjointedly, frowning down at the mess on the carpet as, passively, he allows me to help him to his feet. “I… I’ll be fine though. You don’t have to worry about me.”

“Mmm… Whatever,” I sigh, only just missing stepping on a particularly large, jagged piece of glass as I lead Chloé into the bathroom. “I’m not buying it though, your ‘I’ll be fine’ spiel, so you may as well just get used the fact that you’re stuck with me.”

“I…” Obviously deciding against sharing whatever it was he’d been going to say, Chloé falls silent and, after first checking to see if the lid’s closed, obediently enough follows my prompts to take a seat on the toilet.

“Stay put,” I state softly, watching him until he gives a weary shrug of acceptance before going over to cupboard under the vanity unit and pulling out the first aid kit. “Whatever you dreamt, Chloé, it was just a dream and wasn’t real. Look around you. You’re safe and…”

“It wasn’t just a dream,” Chloé interrupts faintly, lowering his head and refusing to meet my gaze as I walk back over to him. “It was… historical, yes, but it was still real. When you think of nightmares you think of planes crashing and hideous monsters, that sort of graphic, improbable horror, but… but they’re nothing. Real nightmares take things from your past, things that you don’t ever want to be reminded of, and they attack you with them. Everything… all the details… just… everything… It’s all done so perfectly, so realistically, that it really feels as though it’s happening to you all over again. And, Aya, you have no idea how it…”

“I do, actually,” I whisper, cutting Chloé off and kneeling on the tiles in front of him. “I’ve been there, Chloé, and I know exactly how it feels. What’s more, I’ve even done the whole ‘flying out of bed and cowering on the floor’ thing too. I’m not particularly proud of it, and it’s not something I either care to think about or share with people, but, believe me, I’ve both done it and *do* know what it is you’re going through.”

“I don’t know about you, but if I had a choice I’d take the plane crashes and the monsters over them any day,” Chloé replies wanly while holding his hands out and letting me dab the small cuts scattered across them with antiseptic. “At least you can… distance… yourself from the fantastical.”

“Mmm… Tell me about it,” I murmur, thinking back to the -- thankfully -- few and far between Kimura-inspired dreams I’ve been subjected to and the effect they’ve had on me. “It’s still okay though. Even if you were just hit by an unwanted surge of digitally enhanced memories, you’re still safe and surrounded by people who’ll protect you. Things pretty much suck at the moment, granted, but you can’t just give up. Hell, Chloé, we’re here for you, *all* of us, not just Free, and you’ve got to accept this and let us in.”

“You’re better off on the outside,” Chloé sighs, lifting his head and glancing out the bathroom door as someone enters the bedroom. “Seriously, Aya, what you don’t know can’t hurt you.”

“Seeing you like this is already hurting me,” I retort, my response slipping out of my mouth far more forcefully than I would have liked it and causing Chloé to flinch. “Shit! I’m sorry. I didn’t really mean it to come out like that. I… Damn it! I’ll be right back.” 

Mentally berating myself for having come across so insensitively, I stand up and, poking my head into the bedroom, see that Yohji’s returned. 

“How’s it going?” Yohji queries, keeping his voice low as, dropping a pile of old newspaper near the foot of the bed, he walks over and places a fresh bouquet of red and white roses on the bedside table. “You’re looking, I don’t know, either kinda shell shocked or as though you’re fighting hard not to blow a fuse, I can’t quite tell which.”

“The words you’re searching for are ‘out of your depth’,” I reply, moving fully into the room and watching Yohji as, after spreading newspaper down on the floor, he sets about carefully picking up the glass. “The flowers… Thank you. They’re a lovely touch, one that never even would have crossed my mind.”

“Sure it would have,” Yohji responds, shrugging aside my thanks. “You’re still being too hard on yourself, my love. Just go with the flow and you’ll be fine. You know Chloé and you want to help him and, from my experience anyway, that puts you in as good a position to get through to him as anyone.”

“You have more faith in me than I do,” I mutter, glancing over my shoulder towards the bathroom and knowing that, short of Free miraculously materializing, I have to stop procrastinating and go back in there. “Thanks for this though. It’s a great help.”

“It’s just a clean up job, and you know it,” Yohji replies, looking up and smiling softly. “Hey, Aya… Stay with him, if you want to. I’ll understand if you do and don’t mind. I mean, I think it’s pretty clear Chloé needs you more than I do right now.”

“Maybe,” I murmur noncommittally, slightly taken aback by both the kindness and simplicity of Yohji’s offer and the fact that -- again -- I hadn’t even *thought* of staying with Chloé. “Perhaps until Free gets back… I’ll see.”

“Do whatever you have to,” Yohji states, returning to his cleaning. “I just want you know that whatever you choose is fine with me. I know how close you are to Chloé, and I trust you, so… It’s your call. I’m just going to finish up here before going back to bed.”

“I’ll see,” I repeat, turning around and, because I have to, walking back to the en suite. “Goodnight, Yohji, and… again… thank you.” 

“See you when I’m looking at you,” Yohji replies easily, giving me a small wave as I glance back at him before, bracing myself, returning to Chloé. To my distinct relief, although, really, there isn’t anywhere he *could* have conceivably gone, he’s still sitting, his shoulders slumped and his expression one of abject misery, on the toilet.

Watching my return through downcast eyes, Chloé gives a huff of annoyance and, with obvious reluctance and effort, sits up a little bit straighter. “I was hoping you’d decided to cut your losses and not come back,” he comments with a scowl.

“You wish,” I shoot back, resettling myself on the floor and, tired of the tentative approach, simply grabbing his left ankle. “Now, cut the ‘woe is me’ crap, Chloé,” I continue while snatching up the antiseptic and tending to the few small cuts littering the sole of his foot. “I’m staying whether you like it or not, so you may as well just accept it and deal with it. I mightn’t have a clue what I’m doing, but I want to help and, at the risk of sounding like a parrot here, I just want you to know that I’m here for you. And… Fuck it! If I end up shaking you then I’m telling you now that it’ll be on your head.”

“Anyone ever tell you you’d make a wonderful nurse?” Chloé murmurs lightly, wincing as I deliberately dab a little too hard on the biggest of the cuts. “I mean, with a bedside manner like that you’d be sure to go far.”

That’s it. Good intentions be damned.

“Fine. Make jokes. Change the subject. See if I care,” I mutter. Dropping his left foot and moving on to his right, I decide I’ve had enough; if he wants to confide in me, he knows where to find me. “Just… Whatever. Once I’ve finished this I’m going back to bed. You… You can then do whatever the hell you want with my blessings.”

There. Yohji’s wrong. I’m hopeless at this sort of thing and, contrary to how pure my motives may be, I just -- as I’m so clearly demonstrating here --can’t do it. 

His cuts seen to, I tidy up the first aid kit and, without bothering to glance at Chloé, stand up and return it to its spot in the bathroom cupboard. That done, I calmly wash and dry my hands before straightening the hand towel and making to leave the en suite. Reaching the door, I pause to -- be polite -- say goodnight and am about to continue on my way when Chloé, by giving a small, resigned sigh, stops me.

“Schuldig,” he states flatly, standing up and limping across to join me by the doorway. “I… I think Schuldig’s involved in everything that’s been happening. The… paste… that the cross was painted with, that’s definitely the sort of… disgusting… thing he’d do, especially if he wanted to get at me.”

“Schuldig?” I echo, looking at Chloé in dull amazement. First he won’t talk and now he drops this kind of bombshell? Great. Perhaps he’s right after all and I *am* better off not knowing. “What are you talking about? We’ve searched hundreds and hundreds of hours of CCTV footage and if that bastard was in the country we’d know about it. Besides… er… given that you’ve never said anything about him before, why exactly would he want to get at you anyway? Have you had run-ins with him in the past?”

“Not exactly ‘run-ins’, no,” Chloé whispers, leaning limply against the wall and staring down at the tiled floor. “We know each other though. He… he was in my class…” Trailing off, Chloé blinks back tears and begins to visibly tremble. “See?” he adds shakily. “I told you that you were better off not knowing…”

“Schuldig was in your class?” I mutter, not quite comprehending what it is Chloé’s trying to tell me. “From what I’ve managed to pick up about Schuldig over the years, isn’t he a child of…” Stopping myself, I look at Chloé and know that…

Oh dear God, no…

“Rosenkrus?” I whisper finally, shaking my head in disbelief and praying that I’m wrong. “Chloé? You’re not saying that you were in Schuldig’s class at… Rosenkrus?”

Not Rosenkrus, please… Not Chloé. Like Schuldig, the so-called ‘school for gifted children’ in the Bavarian Alps isn’t something I know a lot about but, well, what little I do happen to know is both, in my opinion, enough… more than enough… *and* pretty horrendous. In fact, I think it’s safe to say it’s the sort of place -- if not for their anti-public relations team doing such an exemplary job of keeping it out of the spotlight, that is -- parents, or anyone for that matter, could threaten children with in order to get them to behave or eat their pumpkin or whatever. A sort of tangible way of condemning them to an eternal, living hell, that sort of thing.

“That’s exactly what I’m saying,” Chloé murmurs, lifting haunted eyes to meet mine. “Although I’ve taken pains not to point them out to you, I’ve even got the scars to prove it.”

“Chloé…” My levels of helplessness feeling as though they’ve increased tenfold thanks to Chloé’s completely out-of-the-blue confession, I stare dully at my friend and force myself to take a step towards him. “Why haven’t you said anything about this before?” I query gently, closing my hand around Chloé’s arm and squeezing it. “You know we wouldn’t judge you…”

“It’s not one of those things anyone needs to know,” Chloé mumbles, pulling his arm back and, pushing himself away from the wall, making his way unsteadily into the bedroom. “It… It was years ago and I don’t want to talk about it. The only reason I’m mentioning it at all is in reference to Schuldig and… and the fact that I’m now certain he’s somehow involved in what’s going on.”

“I still wish you’d told me sooner,” I murmur, trailing after Chloé into the room and watching him sit down on the edge of the -- now made -- bed. “I mean, it’s not like it would have changed my opinion of you or anything…”

While Yohji, having tidied Chloé’s bedroom more effectively than I’ve ever seen him manage for his own pigsty of a room, is nowhere in sight; both Mystique and Tantomile are still around and, meandering out from under the bedside table, they jump straight up onto the bed. Chorusing a well-meaning greeting of trills and chirrups, they then proceed to walk -- literally -- all over Chloé, busily confirming for themselves that he is indeed all right. 

“No? Are you honestly sure about that, Aya?” Chloé replies hoarsely, focusing his attention on his feline friends as they both try to settle themselves on his lap. “You say it, but I don’t know… Perhaps you would have pitied me or, worse, distrusted me for having, albeit historical and never once wanted, links to Esset. I… I’m sorry if you think it was wrong of me for keeping this from you but, seeing how things have turned out between us and -- again -- I’m sorry if you find this selfish of me, I’m glad that you didn’t know.”

Mulling over Chloé’s response, I wander over to the bed and gingerly sit myself next to him. Rosenkrus being one of the many things I choose not to think about in any detail, I’d momentarily forgotten that the facility was part of Esset and now, having been reminded, it’s only natural that my thoughts lead me in the direction of the Elders and how Schwarz had planned to use my sister as a sacrificial pawn in their grand, despicable, plan for world domination. Rosenkrus… Esset… Schwarz…

Chloé…

A combination of merciless, unrelenting evil and someone who I’ve never had cause to doubt and who I happen to, in my own way, care about deeply.

“Perhaps you’re right,” I murmur at last as, having lost to Mystique, Tantomile jumps off Chloé’s lap onto mine. “I don’t know. Maybe knowing *would* have changed things between us. Who knows? Given how I feel about you, I somehow doubt it though. I may not know you as well as I thought I did an hour ago, but I’m still confident that I know you well enough to trust you unconditionally and to know that it would take something catastrophic to change this.” 

Pausing, I glance at Chloé and, attempting once more to back my words up with actions, close my hand around his arm. “I’m sorry you felt as though this was something you had to hide from me,” I continue quietly, shifting closer to Chloé and pressing our thighs together, “but I want you to know here and now that it doesn’t change anything.”

“You really mean that?” Chloé queries, looking up and hesitantly meeting my eyes. “I haven’t been entirely honest with you this whole time and… and yet you forgive me? Come on, Aya, stop trying so hard to say the right thing and look at what I’m telling you subjectively. I mean, seeing as I’ve hidden the fact that I was at Rosenkrus from you, what’s to stop me from keeping a few more choice facts to myself, huh? Maybe I was once a part of Schwarz, maybe…”

“Maybe you’re trying too hard to push me away,” I interrupt, sighing in exasperation. “If you want to keep things from me, Chloé, then that’s your prerogative. It is your life, after all, and we’re all entitled to our secrets. And, yeah, maybe I *am* trying too hard to get it through your thick skull that this changes nothing as far as I’m concerned, but, well, if I am it’s only because I… care… and don’t want to see you eating yourself up like this.”

“I still think…”

Not wanting to hear whatever it is Chloé’s planning on hitting me with, I tighten my hold on his arm and shake my head. “Can I ask you a question?”

“I told you, I don’t want to talk about it,” Chloé replies, lowering his gaze and staring down at Mystique.

“Tough,” I retort as I use my free hand to gently cup Chloé’s chin, forcing him to look at me. “Rosenkrus… Did you enjoy your time there?”

“No!” Chloé exclaims, his eyes widening in apparent shock at my question. “God… No! I hated it. It… It was just…”

“Shhh… That’s all I wanted to know,” I murmur, stretching out my fingers and lightly stroking his smooth cheek. “You hated it and you encountered Schuldig and his troop of psychotic friends there and, somehow, you survived and managed to escape. You’re now here however and all of that is in the past.”

“Hopefully in the past,” Chloé corrects, leaning into my touch and letting out a deep, pent up sigh. “I… Again, I’m sorry for behaving like this and for putting you out. Free’s been at me ever since what happened in Wapping to tell you, but I’ve always managed to find an excuse not to. Today though… What happened to Kettleman, it just got the better of me, dredged up memories that I’d rather not have been reminded about and then hit me with them in the form of a truly graphic nightmare. I *should* have said something, I know that, but, as I’m sure you can imagine, it’s really not something I really want to talk about.”

“You’re right, I can imagine, and you don’t have to explain,” I reply, shaking my head for emphasis. “While, yeah, I still wish you could have told me earlier, it doesn’t matter now. All that matters is that you’re okay, that… *we’re*… okay. Whether Schuldig’s involved or not, we’ll get through this. We have to.”

“Of course we have to,” Chloé responds, reaching up and folding his hands around my wrist. “Schuldig nearly destroyed me once and, contrary to the performance I’m putting on right now, I refuse to give him a second chance. With… help… I beat him once, and I can do it again, if I have to.”

Not wanting to push Chloé any further for fear of upsetting him, I refrain from bombarding him with the myriad questions I can feel forming in my head and, draping my arm around his shoulders, hug him to me. “It’ll be okay, Chloé, you’ll see,” I murmur. “All I ask of you though is that now, now that I know about this, that you don’t keep anything else from me. Needing as big a picture here as we can manage, we really need everything we can get. Everything. Even if it’s just a fear that you’re not wanting to voice, we need to know.”

“If I have to,” Chloé sighs, nodding as he stifles a yawn. “Seeing as I’m sure he was tiring of putting up with me all by himself, Free will be glad we’ve had this little heart-to-heart,” he continues, glancing at me and smiling weakly. “Before you ask, yes, he was at Rosenkrus too. We were in different classes though and, while not harboring any particularly fond memories of the place, his time there wasn’t quite as… bad… as mine was, so, well, he won’t care one way or the other that you know.”

Chloé… Free… Rosenkrus… As far as shocks to my system go today, Kettleman’s unfortunate and gratuitously staged death is beginning to pale in comparison to everything else.

“Have I mentioned recently just how much I hate surprises?” I reply, rolling my eyes in a mock display of long suffering. “Okay though, is there anything else you’d perhaps like to tell me, you know, while I’m still reeling from everything else, or has the time come to call it quits for the night and to go back to bed?”

“Bed sounds good to me,” Chloé responds, carefully moving Mystique off his lap before, with another yawn, standing up. Lightly fingering one of the roses in the bouquet Yohji had left for him, he turns to face me, a genuine smile lighting up his face. “I can’t remember if I told you this in the living room or not,” he adds, “but you’re lucky to have him. Very lucky.”

“I know,” I respond simply, picking Tantomile up and placing her at the foot of the bed before standing up and stretching. “Come on though, it’ll be morning before we know it and I really think we need to get some sleep. Now, would you like me to stay with you?”

“But, Yohji…”

“Yohji knows where I am and, if you must know, I make the offer with his blessing,” I interrupt as I fold the bedding down and shoot a warning look at Mystique as she makes to settle herself on a pillow. “Uh-uh. Not there you don’t.”

“In that case… because I know I won’t have that nightmare again if I’m not alone… I’d love it if you’d stay with me,” Chloé murmurs slowly while watching me closely “I… I’d understand though if you’d prefer to go back to Yohji. I mean…”

“Just shut up and get into bed, will you?” I mutter, interrupting him again and, smiling so as to show I’m not really tetchy or anything and am basically just hearing myself speak, gesturing impatiently at the bed. “It’s fine, Chloé. Again, Yohji knows where I am and… well… besides, I don’t particularly want to leave you and would prefer to be here anyway.”

Nodding his acceptance, Chloé climbs into bed, a fleeting, grateful smile crossing his face. “Just tonight then, if… you don’t mind.”

“If I minded I wouldn’t have offered,” I retort with a shrug as I walk around to the other side of the bed and, pulling the comforter back, sit down on the edge of the mattress. “Come on, let’s get some sleep. Now, would you like the lamp left on? Me, I don’t care either way, so it’s your call.”

“On,” Chloé murmurs, lying down and settling himself. “If nothing else Free will be able to see that he’s been relieved of his baby-sitting duties for the night and can actually sleep in his own room for a change. Oh, and, Aya? You do care, or otherwise you wouldn’t have asked.”

An immediate response to Chloé’s comment not springing to mind, I remain silent and, swinging my legs onto the bed, lie down. I then, after tugging up the duvet, wriggle over to Chloé and pull him close. While not Yohji and no longer my lover, I have no qualms about doing this and, ignoring the muffled, surprised sound he makes, arrange myself comfortably around him. Having slept with Chloé like this -- the idea of sex the furthest thing from our minds -- before, it’s not even something I have to think twice about doing. Like the very first time we shared a bed together, it’s just comfortable… innocent, even.

“Aya…” Chloé whispers in token protest even as his hand closes around my pajama top. “You don’t have…” 

“Shhh… It’s fine. I know what I’m doing,” I reply softly, resting my hand over Chloé’s and closing my eyes. “Now… Goodnight. Tomorrow is another day and all that nonsense.”

“Mmm… Goodnight,” Chloé mumbles, relaxing against me. “Thank you… Aya. As embarrassing as all of this has been for me, whether you believe it or not, you’ve helped… a lot.”

Coming to the rapid conclusion that disagreeing with Chloé would only result in an ongoing argument that I don’t really think either of us is quite up to at the moment, I don’t reply and hope that he gets the hint that I’m done talking for the night. After a few tense -- for me, anyway -- minutes, Chloé’s breathing evens out in the cadence of sleep; and, to my relief, all I can hear over it is the sound of the rain falling on the roof. Even the cats, who thankfully have chosen Chloé’s side of the bed to sprawl across, are silent.

Saved, even if it is only momentarily, from the threat of saying or doing something unwittingly careless; I hug Chloé to me and wait impatiently for sleep. My ability to deal coherently with surprises having clearly reached its allocated level for the day, the release of sleep eludes me however and my mind buzzes with both confusing and frustrating thoughts.

Ankh… Cross… Infinity… Ewigkeit?

Remembrance Day poppies - remember - remember what? Phoenix - out of the ashes - back from the dead - mythical - an enemy reborn? Adrastea - Nemesis - revenge - revenge for what, and dished out by who?

Kill those we’ve helped but, other than… messing with me, don’t directly attack us? 

Superiority. The upper hand. Smug. Secure. Educated. Powerful.

Schuldig… Chloé’s comment - "There are many more telepaths out there than just that... lunatic... though, so it's not like I'm necessarily thinking of him.’’ - after I was rescued from the warehouse. The fact that a telepath could have made Kettleman eat the poppies…

Schwarz… The name of the DJ at Heliopolis was Nero. Black. Another pointless clue to taunt us? 

Rosenkrus… Esset stronghold. Free… 

Chloé.

A side of Chloé that he’d fought to keep from me for fear of my reaction… My rejection.

Chloé, who, in the relatively short time I’ve known him has come to mean as much to me as Yohji. Chloé, who, despite Yohji being in bed -- *my* bed -- downstairs, I’m glad to have next to me. Chloé, who -- once our initial, suspicious, ‘getting-to-know-and-accept-you’ stage was over and done with -- has always been nothing but kind to me and who, for some unknown reason, I’ve always felt comfortable with.

Goddamn it! I *knew*, having let it slip on a few, random occasions, that he’d been hurt, and that -- unlike me -- he hadn’t even had the benefit of a normal childhood and adolescence, that for everything I’ve lost I should still consider myself one of the lucky ones, but I never…

Rosenkrus!

Hell on earth. Survival of the fittest. All Nazi and concentration camp references very much intentional. Retention of sanity only optional at best. Torture. ‘Tests’. Children, ‘gifted’ children, abducted or bought from their families. Secretive. Horrific.

It’s just not something that bears thinking about in any great detail and, although this particular thought is already becoming tired, I just wish he’d trusted me enough to let me know before it had to come this. God knows it’s not as though I’ve ever been able to keep anything from him. I’ve even -- over time and because, I don’t know, it felt good talking to someone who’d listen to me and who’d offer nonjudgmental comfort in return -- shared the whole Ewigkeit and Kimura saga with Chloé. In fact, he knows as much about that particular, sordid chapter of my life as Yohji does. I didn’t *enjoy* telling him; and it would be a blatant lie to say I’d ever planned to tell him, but, again, it -- somehow -- just seemed the right thing to do. And he listened too. Really listened and, in a curious sense, it was… nice.

Unexpected. Comforting. Just… yeah… *nice*. 

Chloé, and I don’t just mean this in relation to his ‘gifts’, is quite unlike anyone I’ve ever met before. He just isn’t. Now, while I don’t believe in -- a great number of things -- the concept of soul mates or even in that of deeply forged friendships, there’s something about Chloé that draws me to him. He’s not perfect, in fact there are times when -- his curiosity, interfering, fussiness, occasionally snooty attitude et al adding up to get the better of me -- I could quite cheerfully lock him in a room and leave him there for days, but, on a whole, I’ve adapted to having him around and, seriously, now couldn’t imagine life without him. 

Even now -- and I’m not entirely sure how I feel about this -- that I’ve got Yohji back, I still find myself actively seeking out Chloé and wanting to spend time with him. If Yohji were to react unfavorably to this then I honestly don’t know what I’d do. While I never expected to find myself in this sort of position, now that I’m here I’m actually loathe to give anything up. Selfishly, I want Yohji as my lover while simultaneously not losing any -- with the notable exception of the sex, which would obviously be taking things a little too far -- of what I share and have even come to rely on with Chloé. Just as I was thinking in the shop this afternoon, I like -- for the first time in far too long -- the point my life is currently at and I’d very much like to have the chance to enjoy it. Nothing is lasting in this world, granted, and God knows the last thing I’d want to do is string either of them along or even inadvertently hurt either of them, but…

Again, as mundane as the word is as a descriptive platitude, it’s just nice. I have two people I trust not only with my life but also with my body, and, perhaps solely because it’s all so unique to me, it’s a nice feeling.

My expectations, limited and hardly earth shattering that they were, for Krypton Brand never stretched as far as friendship let alone finding something as strong as this bond – this whatever it’s called -- Chloé and I now share. I joined because Ken had already signed up -- and I very much suspected he’d have stalked me and I’d have been stuck with him on my lonesome, an unnerving thought if ever there was one, if I hadn’t -- and because I’d reluctantly accepted that just about anything would have to be better than remaining on my own. For a while I thought my pessimistic expectations would be proven right too, that Ken, who I already knew; and Michel, who’d probably befriend Osama bin Laden if he smiled at him or offered to buy him an ice cream; were going to be as good as it got. Chloé avoided me, Mihirogi didn’t count, Yuki was sort of suffering from culture shock and a sense of obliterating loss, and Free -- still running around with Side A -- wasn’t even around. Still, I was content enough with things and didn’t much care, Yuki walking around looking as though someone had stolen his last yen and kicked him in the shin for good measure aside, if they never changed.

Then, having apparently accepted that I wasn’t going anywhere; that I wasn’t a threat to his status quo; and most likely that I wasn’t another, different looking version of Ken who bounced around and had designs on upsetting his equilibrium; Chloé started to thaw. For no other real reason than I had to live and work with him -- and because his silent treatment was beginning to shit me no end -- I welcomed his change in attitude and, gradually, through no real effort on either of our part’s, we became… sort of… friends. We discovered that we had more in common -- tastes in literature and art, a general dislike for most popular culture -- than we’d originally thought and, after something like six or so weeks, settled comfortably into simply getting on with things.

Then…

Then came Prague.

Prague, where, our informant having sold us out -- and, in answer to that age old question, *nothing* speaks louder than money -- Chloé and I were too late to stop the senseless slaughter of eight young children. They left the bodies for us to find though. The fragile, battered, and bloodied bodies, *and* the photographic evidence of what they’d been made to endure while still alive. Glossy, A4 images of perversions sick and twisted enough to make you despair of all humanity.

The youngest was three, the oldest seven. One girl they’d even posed hugging the big pink teddy bear her parents had given her for her fifth -- and last -- birthday.

We missed them by thirty minutes at the most. For all we know they were watching us the whole time from somewhere across the nice suburban street. Watching me lean on the outside wall of the house and stare unseeingly at the sky while Chloé threw up in the gutter until, having nothing left in his stomach, he turned his back on the mess and simply slumped miserably to his knees. 

There being no reason for us to stay at the scene and no leads on either the whereabouts of our turncoat informant or where the leaders of the pedophile ring had slithered off to, we retreated to our motel where, too numb to even contemplate doing anything else, we promptly disappeared into our respective rooms. I showered -- a long, *hot* shower that succeeded in neither warming me nor making me feel cleansed -- and, because it was protocol and had to be done, sat down at the desk to write up my report. Having done it before, having shaken off my horror and disgust in the name of necessity, I thought I could do it, that I’d have it in me to put what we’d encountered into words.

I was wrong, however. I didn’t have it in me. For the first time ever, I couldn’t do what I knew had to be done so I just sat there, the blank Word document looking at me accusingly. So young, so innocent… Their pointless deaths and what they’d been made to endure defying all comprehension. When I thought of what we’d found I simply wanted to cry. I controlled myself, somehow, though, because I knew that if I started it would be doubtful that I’d ever stop. There’s just something so heinous… so purely evil… about crimes against children that you don’t even have to know the victims to feel their pain more surely than you’d feel your own.

When there was a knock on the interconnecting door between Chloé’s room and mine, I got up and opened it without hesitation. Like me, Chloé was fresh from the shower and in his hands he held a room service tray containing an old fashioned, heavy silver teapot and two fine bone china cups. Letting him in, and, oddly, finding nothing peculiar about his arrival at all, I returned to my chair and accepted a cup of tea from him without comment. Unlike Ken, who would have kicked a hole in the wall in a futile attempt to assuage his sense of failure; or Yohji, who would have smoked a pack of cigarettes and been well on his way to seeing the bottom of the scotch bottle; Chloé was as eerily calm and composed as I was and we drank our tea in complete silence. To anyone else it might have been surreal, but it was fine by me. I stared into my cup at the desk and Chloé stared into his by the window. We were so still, so intent on feigning control, that it probably only would have taken the sudden sound of a car backfiring for both of us to have completely lost it.

Finally, his tea finished and his cup not offering him the answers he needed, Chloé broke the silence, his voice coming out barely above that of a whisper

“While I know what I’m asking is an imposition, I’d really prefer not to be on my own tonight…”

And, grateful to him for being able to say what I couldn’t, what I couldn’t even allow myself to *think*, I simply nodded. I didn’t even pause to dissect or doubt my decision. Whether it was down to shock or basic, human need or whatever, I simply didn’t want Chloé to leave. He was alive, he was there, he was someone I’d come to both like and trust, and I wanted him to stay with me.

Somehow -- without even having to once open my mouth, I might add -- we ended up in my bed, huddling together as though it was something we’d done a thousand times before. The fact that it wasn’t, that Chloé was the first person I’d shared a bed with since Yohji over two years before, didn’t even enter into it. A dim part of me, the overly analytical part that’s as much a part of me as my red hair, tried to find fault with what was happening, but it couldn’t. Chloé wasn’t *doing* anything to me, we were both wearing pajamas, and -- he was warm and lying with him was so comfortable, so *comforting* -- so what if he wasn’t Yohji? Yohji wasn’t there while Chloé was, and, despite it not being something I ever expected to occur, we needed each other.

Like lust and the ludicrous idea of love at first sight, I don’t really believe in fate or the concept of inevitability. That said, perhaps it honestly was inevitable that, upon waking, we’d take our need for comfort one step further. 

Chloé, to his credit -- and maybe this is why I feel so strongly about him -- asked if I’d mind if he kissed me. He *asked*. He didn’t reach the seemingly logical conclusion that, seeing as I was wrapped around him, I was fine with it or that the green light to try his luck was already his, he actually asked…

And, as things progressed, at every step of the way, he kept asking.

“Can I…?”

“Are you okay with…?”

And I kept saying yes.

“Yes…”

“Please…”

I gave myself over to Chloé and he, very gently and very thoroughly, reminded me of how extraordinary being with another could be. 

And that’s both how it started and how an unspoken understanding was born between us. 

Without offering declarations of love or the desire for anything more permanent or exclusive, we realized that there was something… special… between us. Something special that needed neither words nor work, it was just *there*. I tried -- because my particular brand of common sense insisted -- to make sense of it for a while but gave up when I came to the conclusion that I didn’t care. Being with Chloé -- and also knowing that he was there if I needed him -- offered me a sense of comfort that, having been so long without, I welcomed with open arms.

He mightn’t agree, in fact I’m confident he’d strenuously disagree, but I owe Chloé a lot and I’m not going to give up on him.

Whatever it takes.

Chloé, Free, Yohji, Ken, Yuki, Michel…

Whatever it is that’s coming, we’ll get through it.

Determination being nothing if not one of my strongest points, I simply won’t have it any other way.

So, yeah.

Whatever it takes.

=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=


	2. Chapter 2

=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=

~ Yohji ~

Dropping the towel on the tiled floor, I snatch up my boxers from the vanity unit and, stifling a yawn, pull them on.

Now, mmm… Thinking logically here, all I have to do is clean my teeth and then, finally, I can tumble -- woo-hoo -- into bed.

“You’re going to pick that up, aren’t you?” Aya queries, materializing in the doorway and staring pointedly at the soggy towel. Having showered first, he’s already in his pajamas and after looking at him leaning limply against the doorframe, I think it’s safe to say that he looks as tired as I feel.

“You know, if I’d known getting access to an en suite was going to score me my very own bathroom nazi as well,” I grumble while obediently picking up the towel and making a show of smoothing it over the rack, “I may just have had second thoughts about the whole deal.”

“Is that your way of putting me in my place?” Aya murmurs, wandering over behind me and, wrapping his arms around my waist, pressing up against my back. “If so, you can always return to your own, en suite-less, I might add, room. I mean, don’t let me stop you.”

“Ah, but if I do that I’d have to go back to sharing a bathroom with Ken and Yuki,” I reply, placing my hands over Aya’s and, squeezing them gently, effectively locking him in place; the novelty of knowing that he’s mine still not having worn even the slightest bit thin. “Now, while I don’t have a problem with Yuki, making me share with Ken is just cruel. I tell you, the man is something else again when it comes to messing up a bathroom. Seriously. If you think *one* towel on the floor is bad you should try going in there after Ken’s had a shower.”

“Been there, done that,” Aya responds, resting his chin on my shoulder and yawning broadly. “Oh. Excuse me. That was rude,” he continues apologetically, closing his eyes so as, or so I suspect anyway, to avoid his reflection in the mirror above the basin. “Back to Ken though, well, let’s just say I’m in no big rush to ever have to share a bathroom with him again. Can’t you remember what it was like back at Souzou and…” Trailing off, Aya’s eyes fly open and, abruptly shaking off my hands and releasing me, he takes a couple of steps backwards.

“Sor…”

“Don’t apologize,” I interrupt, turning around in order to face him and shrugging. “Just because I may not remember things doesn’t mean that you either have to apologize for mentioning them *or* stop yourself from bringing them up. Truth be told, I *like* hearing about our past, again, even if I can’t remember it for myself.”

“Are you sure?” Aya queries hesitantly, a concerned frown marring his features as he looks at me. “I… I don’t wish to appear callous or as though I’m, I don’t know, perhaps expecting too much from you. It’s just, I suppose, because certain things are slowly coming back to you that I’m taking your memory for granted when, really, I should be taking more care in what I’m saying.”

“You worry too much, my love,” I assure him as I turn back around and pick up my toothbrush. “Although I just said it, I’ll say it again… Whatever you want to say to me, please, just say it. Just because I may not remember it doesn’t mean that I don’t want to hear it or that I’ll be angry with you for making assumptions that, let’s face it, you’ve got every right to make.” Pausing, I squeeze some toothpaste onto my brush before wagging it in Aya’s direction. “Don’t forget, for now at least, you still know more about me than I do and that I welcome anything that you can give me.”

“I was just going to say that the four of us having to share one bathroom made for some trying times indeed,” Aya mumbles. His desire to continue this conversation clearly having deserted him; he walks back into the bedroom. “That’s all. It wasn’t exactly interesting or relevant or anything.”

Biting back a sigh, I refrain from replying and turn my attention to cleaning my teeth. Aya, I think, although I could of course be wrong, doesn’t like being reminded of my still considerably lacking memory. I’ve had flashes of recollections come to me, yeah, but I know, in terms of the bigger picture, that they’ve just been mere drops in the ocean. And, more often than not they’re directly relating to Aya anyway which means the rest of my -- non-Aya dominated -- life is still little more than a blur. Having grown accustomed to not remembering and having accepted that, I can’t say it even really bothers me that greatly anymore. 

Aya though… Again, although I could be wrong, I swear there are times when it may not so much concern him as it does *annoy* him. Or, failing that, he simply hates having to explain everything… *Everything* -- like who Schwarz are for example and why what remains of them could be plastered on posters as the embodiment of true evil -- that, really, I should know already. Not that he says anything though. He doesn’t have to, what with the way his explanations either become brief and to the point or, if he decides it’s not that important anyway, nonexistent.

Not, I hasten to add, that I’m complaining. Mysterious and ominous threat hanging over our heads notwithstanding, life is still pretty good in my books. I have Aya -- not to mention access to a Ken-free en suite -- and I’m surrounded by friends, *good* friends who I’m prepared to follow anywhere and to fight for. 

So, yeah. Life is good.

My teeth clean and my breath minty-fresh, I return my toothbrush to the holder and, after turning off the light, meander into the bedroom. Aya as expected is already in bed, Tantomile curled in a tight ball in her customary spot near his feet at the foot of the bed. Although he usually reads for a while before going to sleep, both his book and his glasses are still on the bedside table and he’s in the process of stifling another yawn as I turn off my bedside lamp and clamber into bed.

“Don’t tell me you’re knackered,” I tease, settling myself and instinctively reaching for him. 

“Mmm… Knackered,” Aya murmurs, switching his own lamp off before squirming closer and making himself comfortable, his left leg, as always, draped over mine, around me. “Shouldn’t be… But… Never again. Remind me, please, the next time some idiot thinks it’s a good idea to go on a group expedition to Oxford Street that I’ve got something better to do with my time.”

“You’re just getting old,” I snicker, hugging him to me and luxuriating, just as I always do, in the feeling of his body pressed so tightly, so *naturally*, against mine. “I mean, look at Yuki and Michel. I bet -- if you and Chloé hadn’t pulled rank, that is -- that they’d still be happily amusing themselves in that games shop. Ken too.”

“They’d been there for over ninety minutes as it was,” Aya replies, a hint of -- ‘I just don’t get it’ -- disbelief entering his voice. “As for Ken, he’s old enough to know better and shouldn’t have been encouraging them. And, while I’m at it, he certainly shouldn’t have challenged that group of school students to take him on at Gran Turismo. I tell you, it was just plain childish and embarrassing.” 

“They all looked as though they were having fun to me,” I murmur, my selective short term memory choosing to turn a blind eye to Ken’s less-than-impressed expression when a fourteen year old girl wearing an Arsenal t-shirt whooped his ass. “Besides, if you must know, I was beginning to worry if you, Free, and Chloé were ever going to drag yourselves out of that dusty old emporium. All I can say is that’s fortunate they sold great coffee or otherwise I may just have gone postal through boredom.”

“Could always have gone and joined the others in Juvenile Kingdom, or whatever that noisy, bleeping place was called. We wouldn’t have stopped you,” Aya mumbles. “Today though, it was…”

“The word I suspect you’re searching for,” I interrupt, smiling into the darkness, “is ‘fun’. Today, although admittedly in an odd sort of way, was fun.”

“Mmm… Fun,” Aya whispers dubiously, snuggling closer to me and yawning. “Now… Shut up. I want to go to sleep.”

“I see your nazi tendencies aren’t restricted to just the bathroom,” I mutter blithely, kissing him on the top of the head. “But… Okay. Only because you asked so nicely, I’ll shut up and let you sleep.”

“Mmm… Goodnight, Yohji.”

“Goodnight, my love.”

An afternoon spent in the futile pursuit of shopping, coupled with the little amount of sleep he got last night, clearly having disagreed with Aya, he’s asleep within minutes while, no doubt wired courtesy of the amount of caffeine in my system, I lie awake, the events of the day playing over in my mind.

Yuki and Michel’s decrepit-looking, heritage-listed school having sprung a considerable leak due to all the rain, they’d unexpectedly scored the afternoon off and, because of this, Ken decided that it would be a good idea if we all did something together. When Chloé and Aya looked somewhat nonplussed with this suggestion; Ken, instead of graciously admitting defeat and taking Yuki and Michel out for ice cream or whatever, moved effortlessly into lecture mode and started bleating on about ‘team morale’ and ‘for the good of the team’ and ‘you sometimes have to put yourself out for the benefit of those around you’. By the time he’d finished -- his sob story -- I think Aya was too wary of arguing with him for fear of what else he might be hit with while Chloé, having given up on holding his hands over his ears, was already pulling on his coat. 

So, yeah, although some of us did so initially with far less enthusiasm than others, we shut up the shop early and -- after bickering over, amongst other things, who was going to travel with who and who was going to drive and what cars we were going to take and how long we were likely to be -- finally set off for Oxford Street. Having retreated to the courtyard for a much needed smoke after Ken’s truly inspired lecture, I missed the heated debate -- or the, quite possibly, hard fought game of Rock, Paper, Scissors -- that determined our destination and, although it’s been and gone now, still don’t really know how we ended up hitting London’s premier shopping precinct. God knows it wouldn’t have been Aya’s choice. Or, I somehow doubt, Free’s either. Chloé likes to shop though, so, who knows, it may just have been to please him.

Whatever.

Although it was the last thing anyone would have expected when they’d woken up this morning, we ended up taking on the shopping experience that is Oxford Street. And, yes, once there and once some of us had finished sulking, in a quaint, unique sort of -- surreal -- way, we did indeed have fun. Well as much fun as seven not-exactly-what-you’d-mistakenly-call-normal-people -- who are also feeling as though they’re under constant threat -- are capable of. Ken, with a bemused looking Yuki and a hyperactive Michel in tow, hit sports store after sports store before, after detouring through both HMV and the Virgin Megastore, all but literally making himself at home in Aya’s hated games shop. 

Perhaps feeling as though he had to keep me company, Aya endured traipsing through a few clothes shops with me but, going on both his blank expression and the way he kept glaring at the poor shop assistants if they made the grievous error of asking if he was looking for anything in particular, it was fairly obvious he was less than ecstatic about it. Given that a simmering storm cloud wandering along behind you isn’t exactly conducive to clothes shopping -- and, I’m sorry, a dismissive glance followed by a grunt is *not* an acceptable answer to whether something looks good or not -- I caved in after the fifth shop and graciously agreed to join Free and Chloé in the book-slash-antique store. 

To be honest though, I didn’t really care one way or the other and was just happy spending the time in Aya’s company. Not even killing an hour in the antique emporium bothered me too greatly as it was interesting… no, actually it was fascinating… simply watching the others poke around and, dare I say it, engaged with the wider world. 

Despite -- given that it was orange and somewhat bedraggled looking -- having originally mistaken it for a ratty looking fox stole, a ginger cat resided in the store and, upon seeing Chloé, took to him as though he was a long-lost brother or something. The owner of the cat -- who was called, of all things, Horatio, (the cat that is, not his owner) -- could hardly believe her eyes as, according to her, and I quote, ‘the poor love’s nearly ‘alf crippled with arthritis and ‘e never budges from ‘is chair ‘cept when it’s time for ‘is dins-dins.’

I’m thinking -- although, English as it is spoken in England not exactly being what’s taught in Japanese schools, I could possibly be wrong -- that what she meant by that was poor old Horatio was a tad of a couch potato and the only thing that normally got him to move his lard ass was food. Either way, she was almost as impressed with his reaction to Chloé as Horatio himself was with him. Watching him weave around Chloé’s legs and chatter at him in chirrups and yowls was a laugh a minute. At one stage, when he took an outraged, jealous -- ‘back off, bitch, he’s mine!’ -- swipe at a young woman who misguidedly asked Chloé the time; I laughed so much that I thought, going on the disapproving looks I was getting, that I was going to get thrown out of the store. 

Watching everyone -- Chloé and his number one feline fan, Free and the clearly loopy woman with her collection of antique tarot cards and runes, Aya and the look of mortification and embarrassment on his face when he accidentally knocked over a pile of books, causing dust, cobwebs, and paper to fly everywhere -- was certainly fascinating though. 

Fascinating… in a vaguely sad, thought-provoking sort of way.

If fate hadn’t dealt them the hand that saw them being forced -- and I can’t for a second believe that anyone would have chosen it willingly -- into the life of an assassin, where would they have ended up? For that matter, where would any of us have ended up? Would Aya have followed his father into the world of banking? Would Chloé, with his love of knick-knacks and the like, have been content having his own antique store? Would Ken’s football skills have seen him being picked up by Real Madrid or any of the other, big-name European teams? Would I still have my own detective agency in Tokyo?

Would we be ‘normal’? Married? Fathers? In jail? Living in a commune? Planning to go to university before pursuing a career in Information Technology? Stock piling weaponry and in charge of our own cult? Saving to buy a house… a new car… a better home entertainment system?

Would… Would… Would…

My thoughts turning -- in direct contradiction to why we were out and about in the first place --maudlin, I can’t say I was sorry when, having to meet up with Ken and the others, it was time to leave. I don’t know. It was just somehow easier accepting… and dealing with… and moving on… when we were all back out on the street and, albeit imperceptible to the strangers bustling around, everyone’s defenses were back firmly in place. 

Again, I just don’t know. We are what -- life made us -- we are and, our hands forever stained with blood, there’s nothing now that can ever change that. That said, and I’m confident that this is both everyone’s point of view and why it is we’re prone to likening our team to being that of a family, life is basically what you make of it. Sure, we could spend our time self-flagellating and praying to unknown deities for forgiveness for our supposed sins, but, ultimately, there’s just no point. Not liking a lot of it, and perhaps occasionally ruing ‘what could have been’, is more than enough penance as far as I’m concerned. Any more and we may as well be drones, automatons kept in cells and released only in order to kill or retrieve.

I don’t like either the killing or the sordid examples of man at his very worst that we’re constantly exposed to, no one does; but it’s – once again -- my life and I have to make the most of it. We all do. It’s how we cope and can bring ourselves to face each morning. And today, my momentary lapse of misery aside, I think, was a good example of how, I suppose, normal is as normal does.

When the going gets tough the tough go shopping. 

Well, sort of… 

Everyone has coping mechanisms and today, both in defiance of the fact we’re effectively under attack and our stubborn refusal to be cowered by the hideous manner of Kettleman’s death, we simply chose to momentarily put everything behind us and go out like a ‘normal’ group of friends would have. What’s more, it actually worked. Everyone -- admittedly in their own way and, yeah, some more so than others -- enjoyed themselves and by the time we got home everyone was in a far better frame of mind than they’d been in last night. The good moods won’t last, and the sense of lightheartedness wouldn’t have even made it back to the cars, but that’s beside the point. For a few hours things were just gratifyingly… normal. 

Shifting in his sleep, Aya half rolls on top of me and, instinctively, I wrap my arms around him to keep him in place. To my way of thinking, having missed him lying next to me last night, if he wants to use me as a life-sized cushion then, well, he’s more than welcome to. 

Last night.

Aya.

Chloé.

It’s rapidly reaching the point where thinking of the two of them in the same thought is akin to asking for an immediate headache. I love Aya and I trust him but, whether he’s even aware of it himself, there’s far more to his relationship with Chloé than just what Ken told me on my first night here. Chloé *might* just have been attracted to Aya because he appeals to him aesthetically, and Aya *may* just have simply been in need of a spot of human affection, but that was then… And, yeah, this is now. Whatever it is they share -- and I’m sure that it’s a form of love -- is far stronger than what Ken thought or, perhaps, was willing to acknowledge. Aya clearly thinks a lot of Chloé -- even with his tradition of being guarded with any and all people, even his friends -- and, well, one would have to be blind not to see how much they mean to each other, they’re just so close. If I wasn’t here, then…

Yeah. Like with so many freakin’ things, who knows. I’m here, so it’s a pointless question.

As to whether I’m jealous of Chloé, the answer is an uncertain and hesitant yes… and no. 

I’m jealous of the fact that he, unlike me, seems honestly to *know* Aya and that, despite not sharing our history, he’s someone that Aya clearly trusts. Although it’s not something I care to think about, if it came to having to choose a partner to go on a mission with, Aya’s immediate, instinctive response would be to pick Chloé. He might trust me with his life and rate my skills high enough but, having had close to a year of working by his side, I’m nonetheless quietly positive that he’d still prefer to have Chloé backing him up. And this is something I have to profess being slightly jealous about. Not jealous to the point of wanting to contemplate creative ways of removing Chloé from the picture though or anything like that. It’s just something, I suppose, that niggles at me a little, more than anything else.

Oddly enough, on the other hand, Aya spending most of last night with him doesn’t really bother me much at all. Again, I *trust* Aya (and Chloé, who I admittedly adore, too, for that matter) and know that there’s nothing to be achieved by getting all possessive of him and declaring to all and sundry that he’s mine and mine alone. If Aya wants to sleep with Chloé in order to comfort him, or sit on the sofa next to him or… whatever… then, really, he can do so with my blessings. I might… prefer… him not to, but that’s more for reasons of pure selfishness than anything to do with jealousy. Of *course* I’d rather he was with me, but, well… I’ll survive, you know, if he occasionally has other priorities. Besides, I’m sure I was always taught that it’s polite to share…

Maybe I’ll end up changing my mind at some stage but, for now anyway, I have no complaints with how things are working. And that’s because, essentially, they *are* working. Ken’s opinions on the subject aside -- and I still wish he’d had the balls to share with Aya what *he* thought about last night’s sleeping arrangements as opposed to simply hitting me this morning with it before I’d even had time to finish my first cup of coffee or light my first cigarette -- no one’s had cause for complaint and again, yeah, everything’s just meandering along smoothly. Knowing what I now know about Aya, it’s not like I could ever begrudge him having someone else he felt close enough to that he could turn to them anyway.

So, be it magnanimous or foolish or whatever of me, I’m happy enough with the status quo we’ve seamlessly fallen into and wouldn’t really want to do anything to upset it. 

That said, given that I’m the one in Aya’s bed and the one he’s currently draped all over, I have to say that I’m pretty confident of my position.

Not that I think it would ever come down to a fight or anything. I mean, of course not. It’s just an observation that occasionally flits through my mind… more often than not when Ken starts ranting. That’s all.

Coming awake with a start, Aya suddenly squirms away from me and sits up. “When did the power go off?” he demands, sounding, even though he’s just woken up, more alert and with it than I feel despite the fact that I haven’t even fallen asleep yet.

“What do you mean ‘when did the power go off’?” I query, opening my eyes and, finding the room exactly the same -- dark -- as it was when I closed them, struggling into a sitting position. “I hate to break this to you, my love, but it’s night… You know, it’s *supposed* to be black.”

“Smart ass,” Aya mutters, throwing back the comforter and swinging his legs over the edge of the mattress. “Look over in the direction of the desk… See how you can’t see the laptop’s blue power indicator, hmm, the one that’s *always* on, yeah? Well that to me says the power’s gone out.”

“But… But you were asleep!” I reply, dumbfounded as to how he knew we’d suffered a black out while asleep and how I somehow totally missed it. “I know you’re good, Aya, but, come on! How the *hell* did you know that…”

“Listen,” Aya interrupts quietly. “Notice how utterly silent it is? Now, whether you’re consciously aware of it or not, the laptop gives off a faint electrical hum, just as all the appliances do. When they’re all off, I don’t know, it’s almost as though things are *too* still or something.”

“You’re peculiar, you know that, don’t you?” I murmur, shaking my head in the darkness as, concentrating on the admittedly odd, out-of-place, silence, I realize that Aya’s right. Too quiet… Too still… “Hey, why do you think it’s off, huh? Blown fuse? Power line down?”

“Just because I knew the power was off before you did doesn’t mean I actually know *why* it’s off,” Aya retorts, a hint of worry entering his voice. “The generator should have kicked in by now… Ah. There we go,” he continues, standing up and heading over to the computer as the lights flicker into life. “Good. Whether it’s localized to here only or the entire suburb, at least we’ve got power back and I can now check to see that the security system hasn’t been breached.”

“You think we could be under attack?” I query hesitantly, clambering off the mattress and, after stretching, meandering over to join Aya by the desk. “I mean, surely it stands to reason the bastards would want to directly try it on at some stage?”

“What’s the time?” Aya mutters, ignoring my question and lifting the lid on the laptop. “We went to bed just after eleven, so…”

“Hang on, I’ll tell you in a tick,” I interject, glancing over my shoulder and, my brain having a hard time dealing with the sudden brightness, squinting at the alarm clock. “It’s… uh… just gone midnight.”

“Meaning it’s now officially Remembrance Day,” Aya murmurs softly, switching the computer on and tapping his finger impatiently on the desk as it boots up.

“What’s that got to do with anything?” I reply, frowning at the laptop’s screen as, instead of the familiar Windows XP logo flashing up on it, *nothing* comes up. “Hey… Shouldn’t that be, you know, *doing* something by now?”

“Of course it should be fucking doing something,” Aya snaps, giving me a look that’s equal parts worry and exasperation. “Come on, let’s get down to the basement and try the computer there. Maybe it’s nothing, but…”

“Better to be safe than sorry and all that,” I finish for him, frowning at the clearly unhappy computer for a couple of seconds before turning my attention to searching for my robe. Finding it hanging over the corner of the bookcase, I jog over and, grabbing it, quickly pull it on. “Okay. Let’s go.”

“Mmm…” Opening the door, Aya steps into the corridor and, keeping whatever it is he’s thinking to himself, starts off at a fast pace towards the stairs. 

Still not feeling as though I’m fully awake -- which is pretty fucking ludicrous seeing as I hadn’t even been asleep -- I trail slowly after Aya, my mind more on the idea of snatching the time for a quick smoke than it is on why the power’s out. Let’s face it, there are any number of reasons as to why it could be out and, until I know otherwise, I fail to see why I should feel overly worried about it. A car hitting a pole and bringing the lines down… A power surge… An accident at the power plant… KR forgetting to pay the electricity bill… Hell, anything could have happened. For all we know all of London could be out.

Stumbling, yawning, down the stairs to the basement, I’m not really looking where I’m going and promptly crash straight into Aya’s back. “Good place to stop,” I mutter drily, nearly falling on my face when, without replying, Aya steps forward. 

Straightening myself, I see that Ken’s already in the basement, his focus fixed firmly on what’s on the computer monitor in front of him. Still dressed in the clothes he’d been wearing this afternoon; he stares, unmoving, at what strikes me as being security footage of an office somewhere. In black and white and of an empty office that’s unfamiliar to me, I don’t know what it is he’s finding so fascinating about it and go back to thinking about my soon-to-be-lit smoke.

“Ken?” Aya murmurs tentatively while moving further into the room. “What have you got on screen?”

“Like you have to ask,” Ken retorts flatly, not lifting his gaze from the screen. “Come on, Aya. You’re not telling me that you don’t recognize it, are you?”

“Of course I recognize it,” Aya replies quietly, sharing a worried glance over his shoulder with me before walking across to Ken and closing his hand around his shoulder. “But… What? Are you hacking into his security system?”

“Don’t have to,” Ken snorts, clenching his hands around the edge of the desk, his entire posture screaming of someone who’s only just managing to remain in control. “I came straight down here after the power went out and when the generator started up… *this* just came up. I’ve already checked and it’s a live feed coming directly from the security camera set up in his office.”

“Uh… Whose office are we talking about here?” I query, moving over to the desk and peering at the crisp picture on screen. Mmm… Office. Aquarium. Sunlight streaming in through the large window opposite the desk. A Japanese date calendar on the wall above the computer. All very nondescript and perfunctory. A framed photo, the image of which I can’t quite make out, sitting on the desk next to a vase containing a bouquet of lilies. Nope… It rings no bells whatsoever.

“It’s Omi’s… or… as he’s now known, Mamoru’s office,” Aya whispers; his gaze, like Ken’s, drawn to the screen. “Why we’re getting it…” 

Trailing off, Aya falls silent as, oblivious to the fact he’s being watched across the other side of the world, a young man -- who I met once as Takatori Mamoru and who I can’t remember as Omi -- wearing a stylish business suit wanders into the office. Taking a seat at his desk, he clears away the screen saver on the computer before starting to type something up, his fingers flying deftly across the keyboard.

“I’ve got to call him,” Ken whispers, reaching for the phone and fumbling over pulling it towards him. “He’s got to know about this.”

“Who’s got to know about what?” Chloé queries as he materializes in the doorway with Free at his heels. Like Aya and myself they’re both dressed for bed, Chloé wearing a most spectacular black velvet robe over his pajamas while, next to him, Free looks positively uninspired in his batik print cotton pants and rust colored tank top. Both look as though they’ve just woken up.

“We’re getting a live feed from the security camera in Omi’s office,” Aya replies matter-of-factly, not bothering to turn around. “Ken says it just came up…”

“Fuck!” Ken exclaims, the phone falling, momentarily forgotten about, out of his hand as two black clad, masked figures slip into the office. Moving faster than I would have thought possible, the taller of the two figures swiftly crosses the room and -- before… Omi… has time to react, to raise the alarm -- brings his hand down hard on the back of Omi’s neck, knocking him unconscious. 

“Aya… Oh God… Oh God… I…” Ken stammers incoherently, shaking his head in disbelief. “Did you… Oh God…”

Lifting Omi out of his chair, the man hefts him over his shoulder and while staring directly at the hidden camera and striking a pose, rips off his mask. Although Chloé and Aya gasp at this -- his grand uncovering -- and Ken manages to whispers a slightly dismayed sounding ‘oh… *fuck*’, I don’t recognize the man and, glancing at Aya, shrug helplessly. Tall, longish hair that I can’t tell the color of because the feed is in black and white, attractive if not for the cold eyes and smug smirk… As far as I’m concerned he could be anyone.

Someone whispers a name -- “Schuldig” -- but I don’t know who. 

Giving a small bow, the man… *Schuldig*… winks at the camera and, despite now shouldering Omi’s weight, slips out of the office with the same speed and grace with which he entered it. The show not yet having finished though, all the drawers in the desk suddenly slide open and out of them fly what looks to be thousands of poppies. Spiraling in the air, they distort the view of the office for a few seconds before falling to the floor and letting us see that the other masked figure is now sitting, as though he owns it, at the desk. Taking his mask off and letting it slip from his fingers, he swivels in the chair and smiles sweetly at the camera. Like the other man, I don’t recognize him but, going on their reactions -- more gasps and hisses of disgust -- it’s clear that the others do.

“Fucking Nagi!” Ken spits, his voice breaking with emotion as he angrily shoves the keyboard away and slumps down on the desk. “I never trusted that freak and now… I…”

Crouching down, Aya pulls Ken towards him and, albeit awkwardly because of their positions, hugs him tightly. “Don’t worry,” he murmurs fiercely while shuffling backwards as, slipping out of the chair, Ken all but collapses against him. “If this is their way of inviting us to fight then it goes without saying that we accept.”

Feeling a little left out from the display of determination and grief being played out on the floor in front of me, I hesitate over joining them and glance across at Chloé and Free.

Noticing my eyes on him, Chloé, who looks -- as though he’s seen a ghost, a particularly ghastly one at that -- worryingly like he did that morning in the kitchen, turns his back on me and faces Free. “See?” he murmurs wanly, hugging his robe securely around him, “I told you that I wasn’t hallucinating, that… that bastard was involved.”

Closing his hands around Chloé’s shoulders, Free nods. “And so, finally, they have shown themselves,” he comments quietly. “And, now that we know our enemy, we fight.”

And… just like that… it’s clear that I’m the only one in the room who doesn’t have a fucking clue as to what’s going on.

~*~*~*~*~

“Would you perhaps like me to give you a hand?” Michel queries politely, wandering into the kitchen and coming across to hover behind me as I peer morosely into the cupboard in the vain hope of inspiration coming along out of nowhere and hitting me.

Red tin. Green tin. Blue tin. Black tin. Yellow tin. Purple tin. Christ. How many freakin’ different flavors of tea does one person honestly need?

“That’d be… ah… great,” I reply as I stand up. Pleased at being able to hand over the responsibility of choosing the right one to someone else, I flash Michel a relieved smile. “Although I think I’ve got everyone else’s under control, I have absolutely no idea what flavor tea to pick for Free and would be delighted if you’d be able to choose it for me.”

“It would be my pleasure,” Michel murmurs, crouching down and, with only a moment’s hesitation, reaching into the cupboard to pick up the purple tin. “Here. I think he would like this one. If I am correct it is meant to have calming properties.”

Free needs calming? Oh dear God… That’s it. The world is now officially going to hell…

“If that’s the case then maybe we should give some of it to Ken as well,” I mutter drily, taking the tin from Michel and placing it on the counter next to the kettle. “Uh… Thanks, by the way, for coming to help.”

“I just wish to be helpful,” Michel replies quietly, joining me by the counter and taking on the task of making Free’s tea. “That is all.”

“You and me both, kiddo, you and me both,” I respond while pouring myself a cup of coffee and, turning around, leaning my back up against the bench. As dull and, let’s face it, quite possibly futile as making drinks for everyone is, I honestly don’t know what else to do with myself and, feeling at a loss, retreated to the kitchen the second everyone started moving out of the basement. “I don’t know about you,” I continue, taking a welcome mouthful of coffee and glancing down at Michel, “but I have next to no idea what just happened.” 

“I believe the fourth member of Weiss, who was formally known as Omi, was just kidnapped by two members of Schwarz from his office in Tokyo,” Michel replies, the frown of concentration on his face being so different to his usual happy expression that it almost makes him look like an entirely different person. “I also believe that the one who sat down at the computer at the end and stopped the feed, Nagi, had actually been in Omi’s employ and that it now appears that, unbeknownst to anyone, he has rejoined his former team, Schwarz. That, however, I am sorry to say, is all that I have been able to grasp.”

“That’s about it for me too,” I sigh, putting my cup down in response to the sound of the kettle boiling and returning my attention to my self-imposed role of drink maker. Although I know -- having been told -- that I’ve had run-ins with Schwarz before and that they’re on the insane side of dangerous, I just can’t remember anything about them for myself and, I think, because of this I’m finding it difficult to share the other’s obvious concern… or, in Ken’s case, outright horror. 

Worse though is the fact that, really, memory wise, the same can be said for Omi. I *know* he was part of Weiss, and I *know* there was a time when he and Ken had been lovers, and I *know* even Aya still feels a sense of loyalty to him, but…

But, to me, he’s just Takatori Mamoru, the somewhat odd Takatori -- family and conglomeration -- figurehead who one day visited me in my office cell and put me off my game of Solitaire.

Sure, I’ve spoken to him over the phone a couple of times since being here -- he calls me Yohji-kun, which I have to confess to finding a little peculiar -- and every time he’s gushed all over me and sounded genuinely happy to be speaking to me, but, again…

I don’t *know* him. I *should* -- God knows, I should -- but I just don’t. In a numb, muted sort of sense, it’s as though he means nothing to me. I don’t want him to suffer, and I’m perfectly prepared to do whatever it is that’s asked of me to ensure his safety, but, well, for all he means to me he could simply be a target KR has directed us to retrieve. Not, mind you, that I’m exactly in a rush to share this with anyone. I feel enough out of my depth in relation to the whole Schwarz side of things as it is without letting it be known that Omi too is as much of an unknown entity to me as they are.

Not wanting to dwell on this, this new apparent failing of mine, I retrieve a tray from the cupboard near the stove and start placing teapots and mugs on it. “Where is everyone, anyway?” I query, trying to keep my voice light as I grab the milk from the fridge and pour Michel a glass of it before putting the carton straight back. “Have they gone back to the basement?”

Shaking his head, Michel takes the glass of milk from me with a dull smile and gestures out the door. “Chloé, Aya, and Yuki are in the living room running a check on the security system,” he replies, watching me apprehensively as I pick up the tray and, it weighing more than I would have expected, gingerly make my way out of the kitchen. “Ken, I think, is in his room,” he continues while trailing after me, “and Free is in the basement on the phone to KR and Mihirogi. When he has finished he will be joining the others in the lounge.”

“Looks like we’re heading towards the living room then,” I respond, pausing to let Michel slip past so that he can open the door for me. “Here’s to hoping they’ve already got some good news to share with us, yeah?”

“Oh, definitely. That would be wonderful,” Michel murmurs, the tone of his voice telling me in no uncertain terms that he isn’t holding out much hope of this being the case. “Come on, Yohji, let us see what, if anything, they’ve already discovered.”

“Let’s,” I agree unenthusiastically as I walk into the living room through the door Michel is holding open for me and make a beeline for the coffee table. After carefully placing my tray on it, I straighten up and, with a degree of admittedly pointless wariness, glance around me. Yuki, his eyes glued to the screen of the laptop computer he’s got balanced on his knees, is sitting on the armchair to the left of the sofa while Aya, who’s painting an eerie picture of composure in his pajamas and with his deceptively blank expression, is sitting in the one to the right. Chloé, despite having the sofa to himself, is bunched up with his knees hugged loosely to his chest against the arm closest to Aya. All three cats are sitting, sentinel-like, on the floor in front of him.

Looking pleased to see Snowball, Michel picks her up and, oblivious to the evil eye -- ‘you dare disrupt the trinity, heathen?’ -- Mystique shoots him, settles himself on the sofa next to Chloé. Not to be outdone, Mystique -- with a few violent flicks of her tail to indicate her displeasure -- jumps up on to the arm of the sofa and primly positions herself where she can keep an eye on everyone. Tantomile, for her part, gives a dainty yawn and, clearly not in the mood to play games, curls into a ball.

When no one sees fit to acknowledge my arrival, I shrug and start pouring the tea. “Whether or not anyone actually wants it or not, I’ve made everyone a drink,” I state, picking up Aya’s tea and carrying it across to him. “I just thought…”

“Thank you,” Aya interrupts softly with a small nod as he takes the mug from me. “It’s a kind thought and one that I’m sure everyone will appreciate. If… If I’d thought about it I would have known that you were in the kitchen.”

“Mmm…” I mumble, not too sure that I know what Aya means by that -- he perhaps thought I was out in the courtyard having a smoke? -- and return to the coffee table. “Now, have you managed to find anything out while I’ve been, you know, slaving away over a hot kettle?”

“The blackout was specific to our property and I’ve been able to trace the hack into the power company to Omi’s office in Tokyo,” Yuki replies, glancing up and gesturing airily that I can place his tea on the arm of the armchair. “Given that this was simple to do, so simple in fact that I suspect even you would have been able to trace it, we can only assume they *want* us to know that they’re behind it.”

“Other than that though,” Aya interjects, looking up from his mug and frowning, “nothing. As per usual they’re ten steps ahead and merrily jerking us along while we sit around and scratch our heads.”

“Ah… But we at least know who’s behind it all now, don’t we?” I murmur hesitantly, carrying a cup of tea across to Chloé. “That’s something, isn’t it?”

“And what a something it is too,” Chloé sighs, taking the tea from me automatically and looking as though he doesn’t quite know what to do with it. “Thank… Thank you for this. As Aya said, it’s a kind thought…”

“Hey, I wanted a coffee anyway, so it’s not exactly like I put myself out or anything,” I reply lamely, picking up my drink and wandering across to lean against the wall near the television. “I… I’m sure you’ve got this under control already, but has the security system been checked out?”

“I checked it personally,” Aya responds flatly, “and it’s fine. We’re also, in case you are at all interested, already back on mains power. If you care to look at it in this particular way, it’s almost as though nothing ever happened.”

“Mmm…” Sipping my coffee and glancing around me at the tired, blank faces, I realize that the power blackout isn’t the only thing that already feels as though it never happened as, suddenly, the light heartedness of this afternoon seems very, very far away. While I know that our lives are lived -- precariously -- on a day to day basis, and that we’ve been incredibly fortunate just recently in relation to missions and the like, I’d nonetheless never really contemplated it turning sour so quickly. And, yeah, it sucks. It sucks big time.

“Well, I have just finished speaking to KR,” Free states calmly as he walks into the living room, “and…”

“Just what the *fuck* is going on here, huh?” Ken exclaims, shoving past Free and storming across to stand near the coffee table. Unlike the rest of us he’s taken the time to get changed and I can’t help but notice that he’s already wearing his bugnuks. “Aya? Why aren’t you dressed and ready to go?”

“Go?” Aya queries coolly, ignoring the baleful look Ken is giving him and making a show of taking a sip of his tea. “Go *where* exactly, Ken?”

“Why, to Tokyo, dumb ass,” Ken retorts, bounding over the coffee table and positioning himself directly in front of Aya. His eyes wild and his temper clearly in danger of snapping, for a dreadful second I have this sinking feeling that he’s going to grab Aya and, as surreptitiously as I can manage given that all eyes are now focused in this direction, sidle closer to the armchair. “Come on! You saw as well as I did that that fucker Schuldig has Omi and… For fuck’s sake, Aya! Come *on*! We’ve got to get over there and save him!”

“How?” Aya challenges, unruffled. He leans over to place his tea on the floor before settling back in his chair with his arms folded across his chest. “What’s your plan, Ken, huh? Fly down to Heathrow and glower at the departure boards until you can get a flight to Tokyo? Oh… Hang on. Given that you’re all kitted up and raring to go, the only thing that would happen upon reaching Heathrow is that you’d get your fool ass thrown in jail… Now. Calm down and think about things sensibly for a minute. Of course…”

*Fuck* sensible!” Ken snarls with a disgusted look. “If you think I’m just going to sit here enjoying a nice cup of fucking tea while Omi’s in danger then you’ve got another thing coming.”

“As have you if you don’t calm down,” Aya snaps, sitting up a little straighter and pointing across to Free. “If you’d just pull your head in for a second you’d realize that we need to tread carefully here and that flying in half-cocked isn’t going to achieve a damn thing. Now, Free… You were able to get through to KR, yes?”

“This is bullshit,” Ken hisses before throwing himself down on the sofa and causing Michel, who’d been just about to have a drink, to spill half his glass of milk on Snowball. “Fine, though… Happy now, Aya? I’ll just sit here while Omi’s at the mercy of Schwarz…”

“Shut up, Ken,” Chloé murmurs, pressing himself up tighter against the arm of the sofa and pulling his robe closer around him in an attempt to protect himself from the Michel, Snowball, and milk mess next to him. “No one wants to leave your friend…”

“What the fuck would you know, huh?” Ken growls, narrowing his eyes and glaring at Chloé with what looks to be true animosity. “I mean, you fucking guessed that Schwarz were involved after Wapping yet did you say anything? No! Of course not. So… So don’t you *dare* tell me that you care now. If we’d known…”

“As Chloé just said,” Aya states, standing up and, again, gesturing at Free, “shut up, Ken. In fact, shut up before *I* shut you up. You’re not helping anything and you damn well know it. Now, I’ll try again… Free?”

“Both KR and Mihirogi are aware of what has happened,” Free replies, keeping a watchful eye on Ken as he moves further into the room, “and it is their opinion that how we choose to react is solely down to us. Attempts have been made to rouse other teams in the vicinity of Tokyo but, so far, have been unsuccessful. Because of both this and the confirmation of Schwarz’s involvement in the matter, they have decided to retire, tonight, to the safe-house in Switzerland.”

“So we’re on our own then, is that it?” I murmur cautiously, wanting to make sure that I heard Free correctly. “Things are bad and… And we can do whatever the hell we want?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Free responds with a nod. “KR has given both his blessing and access to all of his resources over to us on the understanding that we decide ourselves how best to proceed.”

“Works for me,” Aya mutters, shrugging. “Ken, you and I will leave on the first available flight to Tokyo, while…”

“Whoa!” I exclaim, shaking my head and walking across to stand next to Aya. Christ! Just because I’m close to clueless in respect to what’s going on doesn’t for a second mean I’m simply going to let Aya go off with Ken while I sit here and twiddle my thumbs. “What’s with this you and Ken crap, huh? Where you go, I go… Got it?” 

“I appreciate the thought, Yohji, and it’s not that I doubt your skills, but…”

“You can cut the spiel already, Aya,” Chloé interjects quietly, “as I’m coming too.”

“As am I,” Free comments matter-of-factly. “We are, after all, a team.”

“But… Would we not all be going as a matter of course?” Michel pipes up, looking from Aya to Free and back again, a flicker of doubt mingling with the worry in his pale green eyes.

“Michel’s right,” Yuki states as he closes his laptop and places it carefully on the floor. “Surely we are all going.”

“No!” Aya exclaims, looking -- for the first time since I entered the living room -- agitated. “Hell… No, to all of you. Ken and I will go and that, I’m sure, will be enough. Thank you, all of you, but we can do this on…”

“Kill it, Aya,” I interrupt, closing my hand around his arm -- and scoring myself an annoyed look for my troubles -- in an attempt to make him listen. “I’m going with you and, I’m here to tell you now, that’s all there is to it.”

“But, Yohji…”

“Give it up,” Chloé murmurs before standing up and walking slowly over to Free. “We’re going with you and there’s nothing you can do about it. I’ll admit that there’s a thousand and one other things I’d rather be doing with my time but, that said, there’s simply no way I could just sit back and let the pair of you go off without backup.”

“You don’t have to do this,” Aya replies quietly, his expression softening as he gazes across at Chloé. “Seriously, Chloé… It’s not something I’d ever ask of you and would understand if you’d rather just stay here.”

“I’m not a quitter any more than you are,” Chloé responds with a wan smile, “and I insist upon being by your side, no matter what. As I mentioned last night, I beat him once, so… hey… I’m sure I can do it again.”

Looking slightly flustered, Aya shakes off my hand and goes over to lean against the wall. “I…”

“For God’s sake, Aya, how many freakin’ times do you have to be told that we’re going in as a team?” Ken mutters, his expression brightening as he stands up. “Me personally, I think it’s great and think you should stop trying to protect everyone for a second and graciously accept their offer.”

“Fine,” Aya sighs, shrugging resignedly and looking none too happy about having his wishes so firmly quashed, “*but* -- and this is non-negotiable -- both Yuki and Michel are to be kept out of it. In fact, I’d like to see them join KR in Switzerland.”

“W-what?” Yuki stutters, giving Aya a hurt look. “Aya? I… I don’t understand.”

“There’s nothing *to* understand,” Aya starts to reply as he goes over to Yuki and crouches down in front of him. “I’m sorry if this disagrees with you but, and, again, this is not something that is up for debate, I do not wish for either of you to be involved in this. While you are both valuable members of the team, in this instance, it is in your own best interests if you go to Switzerland to join KR.”

“No!” Shaking his head, Yuki looks imploringly at Aya, his eyes bright behind his glasses. “I have read about Schwarz, and I know that they are a formidable enemy but…” Trailing off, he sniffs dejectedly and lowers his head. “Don’t you trust us?”

“Of course I trust you,” Aya replies soothingly as Free walks over and places his hand around Michel’s shoulder. “And it’s because I trust you and know how good you are at what you do that I’m insisting you don’t become involved in this one.” Pausing, he leans forward and whispers something in Yuki’s ear that, after listening to him intently, results in the adolescent nodding miserably.

“Fine,” Yuki whispers while staring down at his lap so as to avoid everyone’s gaze, “Michel… You and I will look after the cats in Switzerland while the other’s go to Tokyo. It… It is for the best.”

“We can always assist with any computer work that needs doing, yes?” Michel queries hopefully, his own distress at feeling left out, while less palpable than Yuki’s, shining through in his worried expression. “Just because we are not there does not mean that we can not still be of assistance. Free? Am I right?”

“Of course you are right,” Free confirms, squeezing Michel’s shoulder reassuringly. “In fact, I am sure we will rely on your ability to keep us continuously updated.”

“Well, at least that’s one thing settled then,” Aya murmurs under his breath, standing up and glancing at the time on the mantle clock. “Okay… Given that I have no wish to be outvoted so adamantly twice in one night, I hereby state that I’m not even going to attempt to make any more decisions, so whoever has a suggestion as to where we go from here, please, go for it. I quit.”

“Sore loser,” Chloé replies teasingly. “Anyone would think you didn’t want us coming with you, what with the way you’re carrying on.”

“Nah, you got it right the first time,” Ken drawls, “he’s just a sore loser who doesn’t like not getting his own, pig headed way.” Stretching languidly, he pokes his tongue out at Aya in response to the sour look the redhead’s giving him and strolls over to stand by the door. “As for my opinion on what we do now? Well, how about heading back to the basement and checking a few things out while making the travel arrangements?”

“Sounds reasonable to me,” Free replies, taking a step back from the sofa and frowning at the time. “Given that we do not know what time we will have to get started in the morning, I think, however, it might be for the best if both Yuki and Michel were to return to bed.”

All fight having been taken out of him by whatever it was that Aya whispered in his ear, Yuki stands up and shrugs. “You’ll all still be here in the morning?” he queries flatly as he waits for Michel to pick Snowball up and clamber off the sofa before walking slowly towards the door.

“We’ll all still be here,” Aya confirms, his gaze fixed pointedly on Ken. “Promise.”

“Good,” Michel smiles, cuddling Snowball and yawning broadly as he walks out of the room. “Oh! Pardon me. I… I shall see you all in the morning then.”

“Come on, Michel, let’s go back to bed,” Yuki murmurs, disappearing through the doorway without so much as a backwards glance. “The… *others*… have got work to do.”

“He’ll get over it,” Chloé comments, staring at the door for a second or two before walking over to pick up both his discarded mug and Michel’s empty glass. Placing them on the tray, he points in the direction of Aya’s mug. “Come along, Yohji. Let’s try this drink thing again while the other’s get started in the basement.”

“So long as they get drunk this time,” I mutter while grabbing the mug and placing both it and mine on the tray. “Not wanting to waste my energy again, are there any specific orders?” I add, picking the tray up and heading, with Chloé in tow, over to the door.

“Well, if you’re taking orders,” Ken grins, “I’d love a Coke.”

“What Ken really meant to say was that he’d love a cup of tea,” Aya states, wagging his finger as Ken jerks his head around to stare at him. “And the reason why he’d love a cup of tea is because, although he may not know it yet, he’s actually going to get some sleep tonight…”

“A sore loser *and* bossy,” Ken mock complains. “Fine. Yohji, I’d be positively delighted if you’d make me a cup of tea.”

“I don’t know about you,” Chloé murmurs with a poke to my back to hurry me up, “but I think we really should be on our way. You know, before things get messy…”

“You reading my mind again?” I laugh, stepping through the doorway and, with the sound of Ken still bickering with Aya following me, making my way to the kitchen.

“God no,” Chloé retorts as he trails after me laughing. “I’m not, I’ll have you know, *that* hard up for entertainment. That said, what I *am* hard up for is a cigarette…”

“Ha!” I snort, placing the tray on the bench and refilling the kettle. “I should have known there was an ulterior motive behind why you suddenly wanted to help me in the kitchen.”

“I have no shame,” Chloé smirks agreeably. “Now, where are they?”

“Downstairs by the backdoor,” I reply, switching the kettle on before turning my attention to the -- far more important -- coffeemaker. “Do you want me to…” Realizing that I’m already talking to an empty room, I fall silent and shake my head fondly. Oh well. If Chloé wanting a smoke means I can have one in the kitchen without having to brave the dismal elements outside then, hey, I’m not complaining. Quite frankly, given how sick to death I am of the icky feeling of rain dripping down my collar, he can have a whole freakin’ pack with my gratitude if he wants.

Tipping the cold tea into the sink, I think about washing the mugs and teapots but am saved by the sound of Chloé returning. Holding two lit cigarettes, he hands one to me before dropping the pack on the bench and pulling a saucer out of the cupboard. “Filthy habit, granted,” he murmurs before taking a long drag and closing his eyes in pleasure, “but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t need this.”

“If you needed it so much, Chloé-kins, why don’t you smoke all the time?” I query, grabbing clean mugs and lining them up in front of the kettle, “I mean, I do… So it’s not like it’s taboo in the house or anything.”

“Don’t need it all the time,” Chloé replies, tapping his ash into the saucer and shrugging, “only when I’m feeling stressed. And, yeah, before you ask, right now I’m definitely feeling stressed. Pointless though it now is, I’d very much hoped to live the rest of my life out without ever having to encounter Schuldig again.”

“If I could remember him I’d probably feel exactly the same way,” I mutter dully, leaning against the bench and watching Chloé as, crouching down, he ferrets through Free’s tea collection. “Er… Excuse the obvious question, but what are you looking for?” 

“This,” Chloé responds, pulling out an antique-looking black tin with a red and gold, Chinese-style dragon emblazoned around it. “I thought we’d help Ken get the sleep Aya feels he needs,” he continues, standing up and, after grabbing a teapot, tipping a small amount of the tea contained in the tin into it. “While it mightn’t look like much, and it certainly doesn’t taste like much, this stuff could knock out a rhino.”

“And you think Ken’s just going to blithely drink it?” I snicker, taking the tin from Chloé and, lifting the lid, giving the tea a cautious sniff. It smells -- and God alone knows why I ever doubted this -- atrocious and I hurriedly place the lid back on it before returning it to the cupboard. “Oh! You’ve got to be freakin’ kidding me. If that muck only tastes half as bad as it smells then Ken won’t have anything to do with it.”

“It loses its scent when made,” Chloé replies with a smirk as he pours boiling water into the teapot. “Besides, when I’ve finished dumping Ken’s required amount of sugar into it, he won’t know what it is he’s drinking.”

“You’re devious, you know that?” I laugh, joining him by the bench and, in a serious case of déjà vu, starting to make two more pots of tea.

“I prefer the term ‘caring’, myself,” Chloé snickers, filling a mug with tea and quickly spooning three teaspoons of sugar into it. “There. By the time he’s finished this he’ll hardly be able to keep his eyes open.”

“You know, as devious… sorry, my mistake… as *caring* as what you’re doing is, I have to say I think it’s a good idea,” I reply while making myself a cup of coffee as the tea steeps. “Ken, yeah, he definitely needs to sleep.”

“Of course it’s a good idea,” Chloé states, placing Ken’s mug on the tray and reaching for the teapot containing the rosehip tea. “Just as it’s a good idea, contrary to Aya’s opinion on the subject, that Yuki and Michel go to Switzerland while the rest of us go to Tokyo. Omi may not be our… concern… but we are a team and there’s just no way I could sit back and do nothing while Aya and Ken took Schwarz on alone. It just wouldn’t be right.”

“I don’t think Aya’s very impressed that we’re all tagging along,” I comment, finishing my cigarette and stubbing it out in the saucer. “In fact, I think it’s pretty safe to say that he’s pissed. Do you… uh… know why he’d feel this way? I know I don’t remember Schwarz or… or even Omi for that matter… but that doesn’t mean I can’t fight by his side.”

“Just ignore him,” Chloé replies, shaking his head and smiling softly. “He thinks he’s doing the right thing by attempting to protect us all when, really, he doesn’t have to. While Aya wants all of us to be safe, what he doesn’t think about is the fact we want the same thing for him. Don’t worry too much about it though as, albeit reluctantly, he’s given up already and accepted that there’s nothing he can do to stop us going to Tokyo.”

“Lucky us,” I mutter, placing my coffee and two cups of rosehip tea on the tray before stepping back to allow Chloé to pour Free’s tea into the waiting mug. “Sorry. I… ah… didn’t mean to sound…”

“Forget it,” Chloé interrupts dismissively, stubbing his smoke out and picking up the tray. “I’d only be worried if you were jumping up and down with joy…”

“In that case, I think you’re safe,” I reply, giving Chloé’s arm a gentle squeeze before moving towards the door. “Come on, Chloé-kins. Let’s go play the role of waiter.”

“I *knew* there was a reason I’d dragged myself out of bed,” Chloé responds facetiously as he follows me out of the kitchen and down the stairs into the storeroom. 

Pausing by the door that leads down into the basement, Chloé takes a mouthful of tea and -- gingerly balancing the tray in one hand -- breathes into his palm in order to check his breath. This done, he nods to himself and opens the door.

“You’re not, by chance, attempting to disguise the fact you just had a smoke, are you?” I query lightly, unable to stop myself from having a mild dig at him. “If you are, and if you’re wanting to hide it from Aya in particular, let me tell you here and now that you’re wasting your time.”

“Who said anything about wanting to hide it?” Chloé replies, giving me an amused look over his shoulder as he steps carefully down the stairs. “If Aya asks I’ll just tell him we spent the last ten minutes French kissing in the kitchen. He may not buy it, but it’d give him something different to think about.”

Laughing, I walk down the stairs behind Chloé and into the basement. Along with the desktop PC, that Free’s using to -- by the looks of things -- book flights and the like, there’s now a laptop set up alongside the keyboard that Ken’s tapping impatiently on the keys of and staring intently at. Aya -- looking for all the world as though he’s playing the role of supervisor -- stands behind them, trying, no doubt, to keep an eye on both screens simultaneously.

“Looks like we’re redundant anyway,” I comment to Chloé as he hands out the drinks before leaning the tray against the wall near the door and going over to sit in the armchair.

“Computers not being my forte,” Chloé replies as he makes himself comfortable, “I can’t say this troubles me greatly. Besides, I’m only here for moral support.”

“We can’t get in contact with anyone,” Ken mutters before taking a mouthful of his tea, his expression not giving anything away one way or another as to what he thinks of the taste. “Not Singapura, not Crashers, not anyone. No one from Kritiker and no one from any of KR’s resources.”

“Which, of course, means we’re being extra careful with our travel arrangements,” Aya continues, reaching out and trailing his fingers down my arm as he walks across to join Chloé. “In other words, we’re pulling out all the stops. Different flights and routes, aliases, a coded method of contact when we arrive in Tokyo, the lot. It may only be paranoia, and we may be wasting time, but that’s how it’s going to be. For the moment at least the main objective is to make it safely to Tokyo and if intelligence gathering can not be done until we get there, then so be it.”

“This bites,” Ken interjects venomously, gulping down the rest of his tea before banging his cup down on the desk. “Fucking Schwarz, fucking two-timing Nagi, fuck-“ Pausing mid expletive to yawn, Ken leans back in his chair and is in the process of opening his mouth to continue his diatribe when another yawn issues forth instead. A puzzled expression crossing his face, Ken drags himself upright and looks at me helplessly. “Man,” he mumbles, yawning again, “I’m suddenly beat. Um… If we’re done here I think I’ll just go have a nap.”

“I believe you have done all that you can for now, so, please, rest,” Free replies, giving Chloé a suspicious look as the blond feigns fascination with his cup. “Keep in mind, however, that with the timetable we’ve worked out we’ll all need to be up by seven,” he continues, a half smirk tugging on his lips as he returns his attention to the computer.

“Not a problem,” Ken murmurs, clamping his hand over his mouth to stop himself from yawning again as he weaves his way unsteadily towards the door. “I’ll… see you… all… then.”

“Goodnight, Ken,” Chloé states sweetly, giving him a little wave. “I trust you sleep well.”

“Mmm… Night,” Ken replies, having to hold on to the railing for support as he staggers up the stairs.

“How much did you give him?” Free queries mildly once Ken’s made it in one piece to the storeroom, his eyes not wavering from the screen in front of him.

“Enough,” Chloé responds, winking at me as I seat myself in Ken’s chair. “Hey… Don’t blame me. Aya said to give him tea in order to relax him.”

“Whatever it is you’ve done,” Aya retorts, seating himself on the arm of armchair and giving Chloé’s knee a prod, “don’t bring me into it. I’ve got enough to think about at the moment without having to add wondering whether you’ve poisoned Ken to the list.”

“Poisoned him? Pah. I was merely looking after his best interests by ensuring…”

“I take it that you encouraged him?” Free murmurs, glancing at me and raising his eyebrow inquiringly.

“He didn’t need encouraging,” I reply with a laugh, turning away from the others and focusing on the computer screen. “I’m confident that Ken will be fine though, so how about running through the timetable for me?”

“Ken will be fine,” Free echoes, nodding as he uses the mouse to scroll to the top of the page. “Now, as Aya mentioned, so as not to provide our enemy with one simple target, we will be traveling to Tokyo separately. The names you can see on screen will not mean anything to you as they are the aliases we will be using. Now, Ken, because he was somewhat adamant about his need to be on the move, will be flying out of Heathrow at ten in the morning on a Qantas flight to Narita. He will be traveling under the name of Jai Matoh and, as a student studying economics at Cambridge, will be flying home to visit his sick father. If the flight arrives on time he will land…”

Listening to Free explain everything, I try to take in as much of the plan as possible but, because it’s so detailed and specific, in the end, have to settle for grasping the mere basics. Like Ken, I’ll fly out of Heathrow to Narita. My flight doesn’t leave until six that evening however, while Aya flies out from Gatwick the following morning. Free and Chloé meanwhile don’t fly out from London at all and, taking two separate cars and departing at different times, are escorting Yuki and Michel -- and the cats! -- to Switzerland through the Chunnel into France. They’ll then, possibly together, depending on how things have panned out by then, make their way to Tokyo to join the rest of us. If all goes to plan we should all be in position -- and ready to face fuck knows what -- in a little over forty-eight hours time.

And… Yeah…

While it could be argued that it hasn’t really started yet, I’m *already* looking forward to it all being over.

“You are comfortable with the plan?” Free queries politely, cocking his head to one side and looking at me with concern. “If there is something you disagree with, then, please…”

“It’s peachy,” I interrupt as I force my lips to form what I hope like mad passes for a smile. “I’m just feeling exhausted thinking about it, that’s all.”

“Of course,” Free murmurs, glancing across at Chloé and Aya, “you should get some rest. Aya too. Tomorrow will be a long day.”

“I think I just heard my cue to return to bed,” Aya mutters, placing his arm around Chloé’s shoulders and giving him a brief hug before meandering over to stand behind me. “Okay then, let’s go. Seeing as we’ve got to be up in only a little over five hours I suppose we *should* see about getting some sleep.”

“Five hours?” I groan, standing up and shaking my head. “That’s just… *wrong*.”

“You just keep telling yourself that as you follow me up the stairs,” Aya replies, quickly reading what’s up on screen before walking over towards the door, “because the more you stand around and whine the shorter the time becomes.”

“I hate logic,” I sigh, waving at Chloé as I walk past Aya and start up the stairs. “Free, Chloé… See you both in five, *short*, hours then.”

After -- casually dictating that they too should get some rest -- saying his farewells, Aya joins me in the storeroom and together we make our way up the bedroom. A somewhat obvious question coming to me as we step onto the second floor I close my hand around Aya’s arm and come to a stop.

“Do you think…”

“Do I think Omi’s still alive?” Aya murmurs, cutting me off and shrugging tiredly. “Yes, I do. If they wanted to kill him they would have done so while we were watching. As to why they’ve abducted him… Well, your guess is as good as mine. I’m thinking it’s all part of some sort of grand scheme and that they’re wanting us in Tokyo for some reason, but other than that…”

“But other than that we still know nothing,” I finish as I let go of Aya’s arm and continue down the corridor. “What a fucking mess.”

“You said it,” Aya whispers, walking into the bedroom and disappearing into the en suite.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, I decide that, nope, I don’t have to go to the toilet, and after shrugging out of my robe, climb under the duvet. My feet coming in contact with a warm lump on top of the bedding, I note with an odd degree of comfort that Tantomile is already in her customary place and, being nothing if not adaptable, settle myself around her.

Walking out of the bathroom, Aya turns the overhead light off before joining me in bed. Squirming immediately over to me, he gives what sounds to be a sigh of relief and arranges himself around me. Hugging him, I’m alarmed by how cold he feels and pull him tightly against me.

“My God! You’re freezing,” I state quietly, kissing his forehead. “Why didn’t you say something? I would have got your robe or a coat for you.”

“Didn’t notice,” Aya replies with a note of surprise in his voice. “Oh well… Doesn’t matter,” he adds softly before picking my hand up and guiding it under his pajama top to rest on his scarring. “Now… Shhh… We need to sleep.”

Stroking the cold skin, and feeling the raised ridges of both the branded ankh and the scarred cross under my fingertips, I can’t deny the silent importance of Aya’s gesture and wish I knew what to say.

Forever Weiss.

Forever loyal to the original team, to Omi…

Omi. Who I can’t remember.

So much… There’s still so much that’s lost to me.

“Just… one question,” I whisper as my hand flattens against Aya’s scarring, completely covering it. “Yuki… What did you say to Yuki to deflect his disappointment?”

“I reminded him of a promise he made me in New York,” Aya murmurs, resting his hand over mine and squeezing it through the silk of his top, “and that’s, should it come to it, he’ll tend to our graves when we’re gone…”

~*~*~*~*~

“I bet you a bottle of Chivas Regal that Aya’s over there telling Yuki that he needs him to keep an eye on me,” Chloé sighs, wandering over to where I’m standing by the open garage door and deftly plucking my smoke out of my hand. “Come on,” he pauses to take a drag of the cigarette before handing it back to me, “what do you say? Are you in?”

Despite KR and Mirihogi now being in Switzerland, Aya and myself are currently lurking in the castle’s garage waiting to see Chloé and Yuki off. Because KR’s ‘country residence’ is so close to Folkestone and the English side of the Chunnel, it was decided that we may as well use it as a base to depart from and planned our day around it accordingly. Ken was dropped off at the airport on the way down, Free and Michel have already left, and once Chloé and Yuki have gone Aya will take me back to Heathrow in order to catch my flight before returning… home… and waiting to fly out tomorrow morning. 

“I make a point of never making a bet that I stand no chance of winning,” I reply with a snort of laughter. “Sorry. Besides, think happy thoughts. While he’s over there giving Yuki instructions he’s not lecturing you. Now, surely that has to count for something, yeah?”

“When it comes to me, Aya’s lectured out,” Chloé sighs, eyeing my smoke and clearly hesitating over whether to take it from me again or not. “You may not have been too impressed having to travel with the others but, trust me, you didn’t miss out on *anything* by not being in our car. We didn’t even make it to the M20 before Yuki had had enough of our arguing in German and pulled out his iPod to drown us out.”

“Given that I got to play… wait for it… ‘Eye-Spy’ with Michel for the duration of the trip down here,” I murmur, rolling my eyes, “don’t be too sure that I wouldn’t have preferred to have been with you. You missed a great trip, actually. Ken played music so loudly through his headphones that it sounded like it was coming out of his nostrils, Free, I don’t think, said anything from the time we drove out of the garage to the time we kicked Ken out the door at Heathrow, and Michel, who along with being worried was also bored out of his skull, decided that what I really needed to take my mind off things was to play games with him.”

“Hmm… Sounds like both our trips sucked then,” Chloé replies, shaking his head as I offer him my smoke. “Thanks, but no. If Aya saw me with it he’d probably go ballistic. As it is I’m already getting the impression he’s loath to let me out of his sight in case I freak out or do something stupid.”

“He’s just concerned,” I respond, shrugging as I take another drag on my cigarette. “You know that. You also know that, when he’s concerned, he lapses into dictatorial mode. It’s one of those endearing character traits that he can’t help.”

“Well, he doesn’t need to be wasting his concern on me,” Chloé mutters, the slightest hint of defensiveness entering his voice as he glances over his shoulder at Aya and Yuki. “Just because I… despise… Schuldig doesn’t mean that I’m going to allow him to get the better of me. What… happened between us… was a long time ago and… and I’m stronger now. I’m also not the same easy mark that I was back then… And, Goddamn it! I don’t need Aya worrying about me. Hell, I don’t need *anyone* worrying about me. Regardless of whether anyone believes it or not, I’m perfectly capable of looking after myself.”

“Perfectly capable of getting defensive for no good reason too,” I murmur, finishing my smoke and grinding the butt out on the concrete with the heel of my boot. “Now, while it’s none of my business what you and Aya talk about and, while I’m at it, he hasn’t said anything about your mysterious past with Schuldig to me, I know that he’s concerned about you and that there’s not a damn thing you can do to change that. He’s also, despite appearing as though he’s chosen you as his pet project, concerned about all of us and, again, that’s just a fact of life. I’m sure you don’t want to hear it, but I’m concerned about everyone too and, yes, oddly enough, that includes you as well, Chloé-kins.”

Chloé gives me a speculative look as he unbuttons his coat in order to pull his gloves out from one of the inside pockets. “Is that your way of telling me to pull my head in?”

“In a way, yeah,” I reply, my eyes drawn to the antique looking rose-gold chain and Celtic cross hanging around Chloé’s neck and looking nothing if not impressive against the black of his turtleneck. “Hey, this is lovely,” I add, effectively changing the subject as I reach out to finger the cross. “Is it as old as it looks?”

“Older,” Chloé responds as he courteously steps closer so that I can get a better look at it. “It’s been in my family for centuries and has been handed down through the generations.”

“It looks as though it’s been burnt,” I muse, tracing my finger over the intricate etching on the cross. Although it’s faultlessly clean and looks as though it’s been well cared for, there’s just something about the cross -- and the belcher chain it’s hanging from too, for that matter -- that gives the indication of its history having been a difficult one. “Not, I hasten to add, that it detracts from its beauty or anything.”

“Its original owner was burnt at the stake during the Inquisition,” Chloé states matter-of-factly, pulling his gloves on. “If the story is to be believed it had to be stolen from her corpse in order for the family to get it back.”

“Oh.” Letting the cross slip from my fingers, I straighten up and flash a smirk at Chloé. “You telling me your great, great, and a dozen or so more greats for good measure, grandmother was a witch?”

“Something like that,” Chloé murmurs dismissively, doing the buttons back up on his coat before, without warning, pulling me towards him for a hug. “You take care, you hear? I… We’ll all be back together again before you know it.”

“I’m counting on it,” I reply as I blink back, I suspect, the same tear that’s been trying to escape ever since I said goodbye to Ken. “You take care too, yeah? I know you’ve probably already promised Aya, but I want you to promise me too.”

“I promise,” Chloé whispers, releasing me and, after quickly planting a kiss on my forehead, looking away so I can’t see the tears glistening in the corners of his eyes. “What’s… coming… isn’t going to be pleasant, but we’ll get through it… All of us. We’ll all get through it.”

“Of course we will,” Yuki states confidently after leaving Aya by the Mercedes and coming across to tap Chloé on the arm. “Aya says that it’s time for us to go. He’d also, I think, like to have another word with you before we leave.”

“Like there’s anything left that he hasn’t already seen fit to share with me,” Chloé mutters, sharing a wan smile with me as he turns to walk over to Aya. “Goodbye, Yohji. I… I *know* that we’ll meet again, but… if we don’t… I want you to know that I feel honored to have known you and… and that I’m confident you’ll take care of Aya.”

Not wanting to reply in kind -- not wanting to say goodbye to Chloé at all and definitely not wanting to think about the possibility that this might be the last time I see him -- I decide not to say anything and focus my attention on Yuki.

“You are not going to say goodbye?” Yuki inquires, blinking at me owlishly from behind his glasses. “Is that not a little rude?”

“I’ll apologize when he gets to Tokyo,” I murmur while digging another smoke out from my pocket and lighting it up.

“*If* he gets to Tokyo,” Yuki corrects, a frown of disapproval -- that I swear he’s learnt from the master, Aya -- creasing his brow as he glowers at my cigarette. “Despite not having encountered Schwarz myself, I think you…”

“He’ll get to Tokyo,” I interrupt, only just resisting the juvenile urge to blow smoke directly into Yuki’s oh-so-serious face. I like Yuki well enough but, seriously, there are just times his dour take on things really gets on my wick. His life’s been hard, sure. But, well, whose hasn’t?

“You do not know that for…”

“I do, actually,” I grind out, not wanting to be having this conversation and glancing over Yuki’s head to where the Aya and Chloé are standing, embracing, by the driver’s side of the Mercedes. “Now, weren’t you saying something about it being time for you to go?”

“Given that Free and Michel have safely made it to Calais, yes, it is time for us to leave,” Yuki responds, his gaze traveling over me with patent disinterest. “Goodbye, Yohji. I trust I shall see you again in the near future.”

“I’ll be back annoying you before you know it,” I retort before flicking my half-smoked cigarette into a puddle on the driveway and starting to walk over to the car. “And that, before you decide to correct me, is something you can feel free to count on.”

Not quite sure how he should reply to that, Yuki nods curtly and, without once glancing at Aya, climbs into the front passenger seat of the Mercedes. Slamming the door shut, he then pointedly pulls on his seatbelt and stares directly out the windscreen.

“Having to put up with him sulking for the next however many hours,” Chloé murmurs, releasing Aya with obvious reluctance and opening the car door, “I don’t think that’s a hint it would be wise for me to ignore.”

“I suspect you’re right there,” Aya replies, making no attempt to disguise the fact that he’s clearly close to tears and closing his hand tightly around Chloé’s arm. “No more lectures,” he continues quietly, “just this… Be careful. Please, Chloé… When it all boils down to it, that’s all I want. Just… for you to be careful.”

“I’ll be careful, I promise,” Chloé responds, closing his gloved hand over Aya’s for a second before, abruptly, climbing into the Mercedes. “I’ll also be seeing you both in a day or two, so… until then…”

“Until then,” Aya echoes, stepping back from the car and glancing across at Yuki. “Yuki, I’ll see you shortly too, so please don’t worry.”

“He’ll be too busy keeping control of the cats to worry,” Chloé murmurs, swiveling around to look at the oversized cat cage containing Mystique and Tantomile -- Snowball having, at Michel’s insistence, gone in the car with him and Free -- and promptly scoring himself a loud chorus of trills and meows by way of either greeting or complaint. “They say goodbye, by the way,” he snickers, settling himself back in the seat and turning the ignition on so as to be able to operate the electric windows.

“What they’re really saying is that they want out of the damn cage,” I state before carefully shutting the car door and, because he looks so miserable, draping my arm around Aya’s shoulders.

“You’re probably right, too,” Aya replies, relaxing against me with a sigh as the driver’s side window of the Mercedes glides down. “Okay. This is it then… You’re on your way.”

“We’re on our way,” Chloé confirms, switching the headlights on and putting the car into gear. “Again… Until then.”

Aya apparently sharing my refusal to utter goodbye, we don’t reply and silently wave the Mercedes off. Although it’s only early afternoon, the rain has settled in to such an extent that visibility is so poor that by the time the car reaches the end of the driveway all we can see of it are its brake lights as Chloé waits for the gates to open. 

Then… they’re gone, possibly, like Ken, Free and Michel before them, never to be seen again.

“I hate this,” Aya whispers, shifting away from me and wiping the back of his hand over his eyes. “Come on though. Seeing as there’s nothing to be achieved from standing around here, we might as well go too.”

“Like hell,” I retort with a shake of my head for emphasis. “My flight doesn’t leave for another five plus hours and, sorry, there’s just no way I’m killing that much time in the departure lounge. Sorry, but, uh-uh. Besides, even accounting for the traffic being a bitch because of the rain and the whole delays in booking in thing, by my reckoning we’ve still got at least sixty to ninety minutes to play with.”

“And what do you propose we do with the time?” Aya queries dully, hugging his three-quarter length black woolen coat around him and frowning at me. “I don’t know. Shouldn’t we just…”

“It’s a surprise,” I grin as I cut him off and take his hand in mine. “One that you’ve got to come with me to find out.”

“Surprise? What surprise?” Aya asks dubiously, obediently enough allowing me to lead him across to the door that will take us from the garage back into the castle. “When did you get time to arrange for a… uh… surprise?” 

“For starters, it didn’t exactly take a lot of arranging,” I reply, opening the door and, still holding his hand, gesturing him through. “And, secondly, I did it while you, Chloé and Yuki were trying to work out where everything was kept in the kitchen.”

“Hey, it’s not our fault the cook usually makes a point of keeping us out of the kitchen,” Aya protests. “While I’m at it, nor is it our fault that KR has given the staff the time off or that the silly woman keeps the tea next to the flour of all places. The only reason we found it at all was because, in desperation, we systematically searched all the cupboards.”

“I dare you to call Mrs Jones a silly woman the next time you see her,” I reply, leading Aya down the corridor, a mental image of how KR’s cook -- who views all of us, with the exception of Michel who I think she’d like to adopt and keep, with suspicion as it is -- would react to such an affront leaping into my mind and making me laugh. Not pretty, I suspect, would have nothing on it. 

“Why?” Aya mutters drily while slowly trailing along behind me. “So you can see her hit me on the head with a rolling pin or a frying pan? If so, you can take your surprise, whatever it is, and stick it.”

“Charming,” I murmur, glancing over my shoulder at Aya and effecting a hurt expression. “Here I am, trying to do something nice for you, and how do you repay me? Why, by telling me to *stick* it. I mean, that’s bloody lovely, that is.”

“In case it’s escaped your attention,” Aya replies with a gentle squeeze to my hand, “I’m not exactly in the most charming of moods at the moment. In fact, to be perfectly honest with you, I’m feeling *far* from charming and, really, if you knew what was good for you you’d just cut your losses and go sit meekly at Heathrow.”

“Fuck that,” I retort cheerfully as, finally reaching our ‘destination’, I let go of Aya’s hand and open the door that leads into the indoor pool. “Voila!” I exclaim, mock bowing as Aya gives me a curious looks and wanders into the huge, fully enclosed room. “Surprise!”

“Mmm… It’s a pool,” Aya murmurs, shrugging as he watches the rain lash up against the wall of glass that looks out onto the garden. “What’s more, it’s the same pool that you foolishly pulled me into months ago. So… ah… yeah, what gives with bringing me…” Trailing off, Aya unbuttons the top few buttons of his coat and fans himself with his hand. “Fuck. It’s like a sauna in here. Don’t tell me that the surprise is that you broke the thermostat on the central heating?”

“Were you born a skeptic or did life just turn you into one?” I sigh before walking across to the edge of the pool and gesturing around me grandly. “Now, the only reason it feels like a sauna in here is because you’re wearing your coat. When you take it off… in fact, when you take *everything* off and get in the pool with me, you’ll find that the temperature is just right.”

“Excuse me?” Aya’s eyes widen in surprise. “I… I don’t understand what you’re talking about.”

“And to think you’re supposed to be intelligent,” I tease, shrugging out of my jacket and draping it over a nearby deckchair. “This… The pool and the fact I’ve turned the temperature up, is your surprise. I’ve also covered the security cameras meaning, if you’d like -- and I’m hoping that you do -- you can have a swim without feeling as though you’re exposing yourself.”

“Yohji, I…” Blinking, Aya shakes his head and, walking over, gingerly seats himself on the edge of the deckchair. “Thank you… No. Really. It’s a lovely thought, one that I’m touched you’d even think of, but…”

“But what?” I interrupt, not wanting to hear what he’s going to say and pushing ahead with taking my clothes off. “Come on, Aya. I *know* you like to swim, and I know now why you don’t, so… Well, what’s stopping you, huh? No one else is around and…” Noticing Aya’s blank expression and the way he’s chewing his bottom lip, I trail off and sigh. “Fine. It doesn’t matter. I just thought that this was something you’d like, but, hey, whatever. Given that *I* still think it’s a good idea, I’m going to have a swim anyway. You… You can go get your laptop and try yet again to rouse someone in Tokyo or, again, whatever. I don’t particularly care.”

My piece said, I hurriedly finish stripping off and, before Aya has had the time to formulate an appropriately coherent and apologetic response, jump into the pool. As I’d hoped, the water is beautifully warm and, not wanting to dwell on my disappointment at Aya’s reaction, throw myself into the task of leisurely swimming laps.

Damn Aya though. Just… fuck him. I’d done this solely for him, because I thought it would be something he’d like, and he just has to go and dismiss me outright like that. Although it’s not something I particularly want to think about, I bet he’d have reacted differently if it had been Chloé who’d…

Spotting movement out of the corner of my eye, I switch over to backstroke and watch with mounting hope and interest as Aya stands up and takes his coat off. Folding it neatly, he places it on the deckchair before -- while studiously pretending to ignore the fact that I’m watching him -- walking across and testing the water temperature of the pool with his hand. It apparently being to his liking, he then returns to the chair and -- yes! -- slowly begins to remove his clothing. One he’s down to his black briefs, he runs his thumbs under the elastic before abruptly pulling them free and, leaving them on, walking over to the diving board.

Watching and swimming at the same time being, or so it seems, a recipe for disaster, I make my way down to the shallow end and, sitting myself down on the steps, simply gaze at Aya. And… Fuck. I know why he doesn’t allow himself to be seen like this -- too vulnerable, too much on show -- but not even the scarring on his waist or the other faint scars that litter his body can detract from his incredible beauty. Slim, pale, toned in all the right places, just… perfect. And, unbelievably, mine.

Acknowledging that I’m watching him with the briefest of smiles, Aya climbs sure footedly to the top of the diving board. He then, without so much as a second’s hesitation, strides down to the end and, with one bounce, dives straight into the pool, causing only the slightest ripple in the water as he hits it. Surfacing halfway down the length of the pool, he swims over to join me in the shallow end and, standing up, runs his fingers through his hair, slicking it back. 

“Well?” Aya murmurs shyly. “Happy now?”

“Oh yeah, definitely,” I grin, standing up and clapping. “As for the dive? Despite it only being your first attempt, I give it an eight-point-five.”

“Only an eight-point-five?” Aya replies with a shake of his head that -- no doubt intentionally --causes his hair to fall forward. “I’ll have you know that you’re looking at a former middle school diving champion here. Once upon a time I even had the medals to prove it.”

“You did? Wow,” I respond, impressed. “I never knew… Oh. Hang on. Perhaps I once did and…”

“No. You never knew,” Aya states softly, walking over to stroke his hand down my cheek. “I… For some reason it’s just not something I’ve ever told anyone before.” Retracting his hand, he looks away and shrugs. “Another thing I’ve never told anyone is how much I used to hate it. Not the diving itself, as that I actually rather enjoyed, but I despised the practice and the competitions. Even then… before I had any real reason too… I hated feeling everyone’s eyes on me and knowing that they were checking me out. The change rooms were a trial too as, for some unknown reason, the other students thought it was amusing to see whether my hair color was natural or not. I… I don’t know why. It’s not like it was any of their business or anything.”

“Small things amuse small minds,” I offer faintly, mirroring Aya’s gesture and stroking his cheek. “I hope you didn’t let them get to you.”

“I didn’t let them get to me,” Aya murmurs, picking up my hand and kissing my palm. “No. I beat them instead. They left me alone though, when a new student, one who had prematurely gray hair, came along. In hindsight, I should have stood up for him, but I didn’t. I think I was just too relieved at being left alone. What about you though? If you’d known me back then would you have been one of the ones who picked on my hair or would you have been too busy smoking behind the bike shed?”

“Possibly. I… I don’t know,” I reply haltingly, hating that I don’t have an answer for him. “I’m sorry, but I just don’t know… I mean, I know I went to school because I can clearly remember some of my schooling, but… Shit! What I was like at school isn’t something I can tell you…”

“It’s not you who should be apologizing,” Aya responds gently, giving my palm another kiss before letting go and backing away. “I asked a careless, insensitive question of you and, yes, I’m sorry. It… It doesn’t matter anyway.” Pausing, he manages a bright smile and splashes his hands around in the water. “Now, seeing as you were right and this *was* a good idea, I want to swim.”

“Then knock yourself out,” I state, not only relieved that Aya’s as anxious to drop the subject of my errant memory as I am but also that he’s warmed to my ‘surprise’. “This, after all, is for you.”

“And I thank you for it,” Aya whispers before diving smoothly into the water and quickly swimming up to the other end of the pool.

Knowing that I don’t stand a snowflake’s chance in hell of keeping up with him, I go back to lazily swimming up and down the length of the pool as Aya, who I don’t think is capable of doing anything at half speed, laps me. Meeting by chance at the shallow end, Aya stands up and grins, for him, cheekily. “Race you?”

“You what?” I mutter as I drag my fingers through my hair and snort derisively. “Unless you’re merely looking for an excuse to give some sort of victory dance in respect to whooping my ass, which, I’ll admit, I’d kinda like to see, what’s in it for me, huh?”

“If you win, you…” Moving closer, Aya presses his chest up against mine and leans forward in order to whisper in my ear. “If you win you can have me.”

“And if I… ah… lose?” I stammer, somewhat taken aback by his unexpected offer.

“Then within ten minutes were in the car on our way to Heathrow,” Aya murmurs, nuzzling my neck, I suspect, in an attempt to completely disorientate me and thus guarantee his victory. “So… What do you say?”

“Although I *still* have no desire to get to Heathrow this early,” I reply, gently pushing him away, “I say you’re on.”

“That’s what I was hoping you’d say,” Aya smiles, positioning himself with his back up against the edge of the pool. “First back here wins, yeah? Now… On three?”

“Mmm… On three,” I agree, staring at the other end of the pool and wondering how, exactly, it’s suddenly become so far away. “One… Two…”

“Three!”

Propelling myself away from the edge, I decide that freestyle is the way to go and take off after Aya. Now, whether it’s the admittedly inspiring idea of Aya’s ‘prize’ that’s spurring me on or whether he’s just slowing down as a result of all of his earlier laps, I touch the other end of the pool only a mere second or two after Aya and, buoyed by this, throw everything I’ve got into beating him.

And…

Somehow…

The Gods deciding today would be a good day to smile on me, I manage to win.

“Yes!” I exclaim, standing up and bouncing up and down. “Ha! You lose.”

“So it appears,” Aya murmurs softly, his eyes gleaming as he slicks his hair back before, once again, shaking it back into place. “You must be faster than you look.”

“Or you let me win,” I suggest, walking over to Aya and, placing my hands over his shoulders, carefully trapping his against the edge of the pool. “Not that I care or…”

“I never intentionally let anyone beat me,” Aya replies before squirming free and effortlessly hoisting himself up onto the pool’s ledge. “You won… fair and square,” he adds, pulling me towards him and wrapping his legs around my waist, “So… C’mon… Claim your prize before it decides to challenge you to a rematch.”

“Like I need telling twice,” I grin, reaching up and, resting my hand on the back of his neck, bringing Aya’s head forward in order to be able to kiss him. Welcoming my lips on his, he tightens his legs around me and, clenching one hand around my shoulder, uses the other to comb his fingers up through my hair. Hungry for the taste of him -- although this had never been on my agenda when, on the spur of the moment, I’d decided to surprise him with the offer of a swim -- I slip my tongue in between his teeth and kiss him for all I’m worth. Aya’s tongue meeting mine enthusiastically, we kiss until -- light headed -- the need for a fresh intake of air sees us reluctantly pulling apart. 

The sight of Aya’s perfect chest rising and falling in front of me as he pants being too good an invitation to ignore, I lean forward and leisurely, deliberately, lick a path from his navel to his Adam’s apple. Because the water is salted instead of chlorinated (apparently it used to be chlorinated but rumor has it that it turned Michel’s hair green last summer and had to be changed over to salt), his skin tastes of the sea and, delighted, I give a low purr of approval.

Arching his back, Aya effectively presents his nipples to me and, happy to oblige, I swipe my tongue over the left one before carefully taking it between my lips. Digging his fingers into my shoulder, Aya shudders deeply as his legs loosen their grip on my waist as he gives himself over to sensation. Pleased with this reaction, I swap over to his right nipple and repeat my trick, this time sucking it to a hardened point.

“Yohji… Not…” Aya gasps as I return my mouth to his left nipple and ever-so-gently bite down on it. “Not here… Please… Let’s go to a bedroom.”

Releasing his nipple, I straighten up and pout. “Why not here? I like it well enough.”

“I know you’ve covered the cameras,” Aya replies, blushing slightly as, glancing behind him, he looks out into the rain-drenched garden, “and I know we’re the only ones here, but… Please. It’s still too open for me and… and I just don’t feel comfortable doing this here.”

“In that case,” I whisper, sliding my hands up his smooth chest and kissing his cheek as he turns back to face me, “let’s get out of here.”

His relief obvious, Aya smiles softly and gets to his feet. “Mmm… Let’s.” 

Nodding my agreement, I climb out of the pool and follow Aya across to the deckchair where our clothes are. Snatching up two of the towels I’d earlier placed under the chair, I hand one to Aya and use the other to cursorily dry myself off before tying it loosely around my waist. Aya though, after drying himself off, takes things one step further and pulls his coat on over his briefs. He then picks up his clothes and boots and waits for me to do the same before starting to walk towards the door.

“Would I get my head bitten off for saying you look like a somewhat damp flasher?” I murmur teasingly, trailing after Aya as he leads the way into the wing containing all the bedrooms.

“No. But you might get a boot thrown at your head,” Aya retorts with a snort. “So I’d watch it if I were you.”

“Oh… I’m watching it all right,” I reply, injecting just the right amount of sleaze into my voice to make Aya turn around and shake his head at me. “Trust me… And… Whoa-baby… What a fine sight it is too…” 

“You’re incorrigible,” Aya mutters, suppressing a smile as we reach the bottom of the stairs. “Keep it up though and I’ll have no qualms whatsoever about reneging on my bet.”

Effecting an expression of butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-my-mouth innocence, I sidle past Aya and start up the stairs. “I thought though that… you know… you’d *want* me to keep it up…”

“You’re not just incorrigible,” Aya sighs, passing me on the stairs and once again leading the way. “No… You’re a law entirely unto yourself.”

“I can live with that,” I smirk, raising my eyebrow in surprise as, without either word or warning, Aya opens the door to Chloé’s room and steps into it. “Er… You want to do it in here?” I query, poking my head through the door and sounding as stunned as I feel at this strange, out-of-the-blue turn of events.

“What? No!” Aya exclaims, giving me a wide eyed look that’s as disgusted as it is shocked. “What an… offensive thought,” he continues with a frown. “Just… No. I’m surprised you could actually even think such a thing.”

“Then… and apologies in advance if this is a really stupid question,” I reply, leaning against the doorframe and watching as Aya pulls open a drawer in one of the bedside tables, “what *exactly* are you doing in here?”

“Getting these,” Aya responds, giving me another one of his ‘and what planet are you from again?’ looks as he holds up a condom and a tube of body lotion. “I… I don’t have anything like this in my room and I knew… Well…”

“Ah… It’s all falling into place now,” I drawl before pushing away from the wall and, trying to ignore the flash of jealousy this little detour has inspired in me, waiting impatiently for Aya in the corridor. “Now… Are we ready?”

“We’re ready,” Aya murmurs as he slips out of the room and pulls the door closed behind him.

“You have no idea how relieved I am to hear it,” I reply, again injecting a suitable amount of lechery into my voice as, finally, we reach Aya’s room. Dropping my clothes carelessly on the floor, I wait for Aya to deposit his far more carefully on the top of the chest of drawers, and the lotion and condom on the bed, before grabbing him by the waist and engulfing him in a rough embrace.

“So… What can I do for you?” I murmur thickly, trailing kisses down his jaw line and neck as, instinctively, he relaxes against me, his arms settling around my back. “Just… Name it…”

Shaking his head, Aya locks very clear violet eyes on mine and gives a small shrug. “You won the bet,” he whispers, “so therefore I am yours. Whatever you want… is yours to take.”

What Aya says and what he actually means, despite the fact he prides himself on his honesty, are sometimes two entirely different things. And this -- although he’d deny it and the moment would be ruined if I raised it --, is, without a doubt, one of those times. Knowing him -- as sad as this is -- already better than I know myself, I *know* what he wants, I can see it in his eyes and in the way he’s behaving, but I wish… God how I wish… he could find it in himself to just come out and say it.

… I want you. To put it crudely, I want you to fuck me because I’m feeling empty and I hope that by having you inside me, I might, however briefly, be able to feel complete. I also let you win in the pool because… although I know you can’t deny me, that you’re forever telling me in small ways that you’ll do anything for me, that you love me… I can’t, I just *can’t* ask anything of you. I’m sorry, but, please…

Stubborn, misguided and messed up fool that he is.

“As you wish then,” I reply quietly, planting soft kisses on his forehead and the tip of his nose before capturing his mouth with mine and losing myself in the moist pliancy of the passionate kiss. Time, probably for all of a minute although it feels far longer, seems to stop as we kiss, Aya’s hands gliding proprietarily up and down the length of my back. Then, just as the need for air is once again becoming pressingly apparent, in a sudden, fluid movement, Aya strips my towel off and drops to his knees.

I’ve barely had time to adjust to the shock of no longer feeling his lips pressed against mine when, closing his hand around the base of my already half-hard cock, he flicks his tongue lightly across the tip, causing me to gasp. “But… But I thought…” I stammer, looking down at the glorious sight of Aya kneeling, his coat fanned out around him, in front of me and feeling my knees suddenly want to give way beneath me. 

“Quid pro quo,” Aya whispers as he glances up at me from under his bangs and smiles softly. “Now… Let me…”

*Let* him? Fuck. It’d take someone with far stronger willpower than I possess to stop him.

Closing my eyes, I empty my mind of all thought and give myself over to the sensations coursing through my body courtesy of Aya’s tongue and lips pleasuring my cock. His fingers still curled tightly around the base, he takes half my length in his mouth and purrs low in his throat, sending vibrations up through my cock and, I swear, all the way to my head. 

My legs now *really* feeling as though they no longer want to keep me upright, I cup Aya’s cheek in my hand and gently force him to look up. Releasing my cock, he presses his cheek into my palm and, trailing his hand down my leg, glances up at me. “Mmm?” 

“My turn,” I state hoarsely, leaning forward and, with my hands under his arms, lifting him to his feet. Once he’s standing, I swiftly dive in for another kiss. Plundering his mouth, I taste myself on his tongue and, a hot flush settling over me, half-carry, half-propel him onto the bed. Following him down on to the mattress, somehow, through more luck than skill, we manage to get fully onto the bed without breaking the kiss.

Wanting Aya, wanting to feel him, to repay the pleasure he’s already brought me, I pull back from the kiss and, traveling down his body, map his smooth torso with my tongue and lips. Nipples, ribs, navel, scarring. I cover it all, making him writhe and clutch at the bedding beneath me. His skin tastes faintly of salt but, to me, it’s better than that alleged drink of the Gods, Ambrosia. 

Just… Too beautiful. Laid out before me, still in his black coat with its satin lining highlighting his porcelain, sweat slicked skin, he’s just…

Beautiful. There’s no other word that could even begin to do him justice.

My cock throbbing in anticipation of what’s to come, I reluctantly accept that I have to move things along and, shuffling further down the bed, bow my head and close my mouth over his gratifyingly hard cock through the thin cotton of his briefs. His hand reaching blindly for me, Aya tangles his fingers in my hair and, his breath coming out in pants, he bucks off the mattress. 

“Yohji! Please…” 

“Shhh… Soon,” I murmur, licking, still through his briefs, the length of his cock. “Now… Aren’t you the one who’s always on at me about the concept of patience?”

“*Fuck*… patience,” Aya grinds out, his fingers tightening in my hair. “I… I want you.”

Aya’s, halting ‘I want you’ being as much of a declaration of need as I’ll probably ever hear from him, I decide to take pity on him and, with one final lick, swiftly pull off his briefs. Sitting up and, by the feel of it, losing myself a good handful of hair as Aya’s fingers fall away, I then take a moment to admire the exquisite image stretched out before me and, unable to help myself, lick my lips wantonly. Again, in his coat and with his hard cock lying flush against his flat belly, he’s just a… vision.

“You may want to… ah… take your coat off,” I suggest softly, reaching for the condom and, as Aya -- looking surprised at the fact he’s even still wearing it -- makes short work of ridding himself of his coat, rolling it onto my cock.

Resettling himself on the mattress, Aya stretches languidly and, clearly as caught up in the moment as I am, spreads his legs invitingly. “Yohji… Come…”

Silencing him with a kiss, I grope around for the tube of lotion and, after fumbling to get the cap off, squeeze a generous amount into my hand. The scent of roses immediately filling the room, I’m suddenly reminded of where the lotion came from -- *and* the reason why Aya knew where to find it -- but, now not exactly being the time for a spot of ill advised jealousy, push it out of my mind.

Being treated both carefully and gently, along with constantly knowing that he’s in control, being -- understandably -- of paramount importance to Aya, I take my time preparing him, peppering what my fingers are slowly doing to the opening of his body with fleeting kisses and caresses with my free hand. Although our lovemaking lacks spontaneity, I don’t begrudge Aya his needs for a second. Given what that fucker, Kimura, put him through, there are times when I think it’s nothing short of a miracle that he’s made it this far as it is. God knows no one would have been able to blame him if he’d simply written sex off as some sort of sick, horrid joke and refused to take any part in it.

Besides, it’s not exactly as if all the hard work doesn’t come with its own, considerable, advantages. 

When I’m confident that Aya’s ready, I press the tip of my cock against his opening and, bracing myself by placing my hands over his shoulders, wait for him to settle his legs around my waist before continuing. Once his legs are locked around me... and the look of apprehension has faded from his face, I slowly guide myself into his tight, enveloping warmth. Gasping at the invasion of his body, Aya arches slightly off the mattress, his eyes fixed on mine. “Y-yes,” he hisses, reaching up and guiding my head down to his for a kiss.

Connected, our bodies momentarily one, the world outside the four walls of the room -- which, incidentally, could be anywhere -- cease to exist as we make love. Commanding all of my senses, all I can feel, see, hear, and smell is Aya. He is, quite literally, my everything. My love, my soul… my entire reason for being. Without him -- and is this how it used to be? -- I’d have nothing, I’d be nothing.

Saying a quick mental prayer in my mind that I haven’t misjudged my own strength and that I don’t end up just slumping down on top of him, I brace myself on one hand and use the other to grasp Aya’s cock. Stroking it in time with my thrusts, coupled with the ever deepening kiss, proving to be too much for Aya, he comes with a strangled cry, his seed spilling out and coating both our stomachs. Watching the viscous white fluid pool in his navel, I feel my own control desert me and, incoherently screaming my pleasure, I climax, my orgasm roaring through my body.

Panting, I quickly pull out of Aya and, collapsing alongside him, carefully remove the condom before tying a knot in the end and throwing it in the bin under the bedside table. This done, I lie on my side and reach for Aya. Wriggling over, he presses himself against me and, sticky and satiated, we embrace. There being absolutely nothing that needs to be said, we lay together in comfortable silence for five or so minutes, getting our breath back and resigning ourselves to the inevitable, in more ways than one, separation. 

“We have to get moving,” Aya whispers at last, nuzzling my neck for a moment before, with a sigh, rolling away and sitting up. “We have to shower, get dressed, clean up, and… And I have to get you to Heathrow.”

“Mmm… I know,” I murmur as I swing my legs slowly over the edge of the mattress and, unenthusiastically, sit up. “We’ll save time if we shower together,” I add hopefully, dragging myself into an upright position and, on unsteady feet, following Aya into the bathroom. 

“I suppose we would too,” Aya replies softly, opening the glass door to the shower and turning the taps on. “Come on then… So long as you realize that we’re back on a timetable and that we no longer have the time to fool around…”

“Spoilsport,” I mock grumble, joining Aya in the shower and, stretching, running my fingers through my hair.

“That I may be,” Aya responds, pulling the shower door shut and, surprising me, wrapping his arms around me and resting his head on my shoulder. “Yohji… I… I just want you to know how grateful I am for this afternoon, for… for everything. I…” His breath catching in his throat, Aya trails off and shudders. “Just… Thank you…”

“Feel free to correct me if I’m wrong here,” I murmur, hugging Aya to me and combing my fingers through his hair as though I’m petting a cat, “but I’m beginning to get the impression that you’re not good at goodbyes.”

“They are not something I have had a lot of practice with,” Aya replies, his voice barely above that of a whisper as he tightens his hold on me. “Everything that… I have lost… or have had taken from me… has happened so quickly that I’ve never had the time to say goodbye. One minute they’re just there, as they’ve always been, and then… and then they’re gone.”

“But this isn’t a goodbye,” I respond thickly, still stroking his hair and, not for the first time, hating how much hardship Aya’s seen in his still relatively young life. “More a… ‘see you shortly’.”

Closing his eyes so as to hide what he’s really thinking from me, Aya nods slowly.

“Mmm… See you shortly…” he echoes unconvincingly, shuddering again as demons I couldn’t even begin to understand whisper a melody of doubt and fear in his ear. “I… I hope.”

=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=


	3. Chapter 3

~ Aya ~

Stepping out onto the rooftop, I prop the door open behind me with a terracotta pot containing, by the looks of it, parsley, and look up to scowl at the clear night sky. The rain -- after ruining all the Remembrance Day ceremonies and making driving the M20 a complete nightmare -- having finally lifted, it’s now a lovely night. Cloudless sky, three-quarter moon, the Evening Star shining brightly, no breeze, crisp, still air… If not for the temperature being a mere two or three degrees above freezing it would be a perfect night to have a BBQ or moonlit picnic or something… arguably fun… like that anyway. Something where you could surround yourself with friends and, in the name of a good time, simply put everything else to the back of your mind. 

I wish…

No. Never mind that. What I really wish is that I could remember back to when exactly it was that I became so pathetic, so *needy*. As… Fuck… I don’t know… As *pointless* as I know the emotion to be, I’m already missing the others and can hardly believe that a mere twelve short hours ago they were all still here, that things were… normal…

Now…

Now it’s just me. I’m it. For the first time since moving to London I have the house entirely to myself and, foolishly, I can barely tolerate it. It’s so quiet and so *still* that it doesn’t even feel like the same house. Although I’ve got the television in the living room turned onto a twenty-four hour news station and the volume up loud enough to be easily heard throughout the first floor, it’s not the same. Nowhere near the same in fact. Despite everyone being quiet on their feet -- Ken and Michel, when they’re in a hurry, being the notable exception to this and having it in them the ability to sound like a herd of stampeding elephants -- the house is still usually alive with the sound of movement, of *life*, and this… this out of place stillness isn’t sitting right with me. 

To put it bluntly, I hate it. Absolutely positively loath it. I hate the silence, I hate knowing that I can’t even turn to the cats for company because they’re gone too, I hate the sterile, all but abandoned look to the rooms, I hate knowing that instead of standing here killing time on the roof I should be cleaning out the fridge and ensuring that no stray flowers have been left to rot in the shop, and, most of all, I hate not knowing whether things will ever return to how they were.

Given that, really, we still don’t know what it is we’re facing, will we all survive? In a week or two, battered and sore but victorious, will we all come home to heal and get on with things? Or will things drag on until some, if not all of us, fail and the house, in time, becomes either neglected or home to -- our replacements -- a new team?

Doubt. Uncertainty. Worry. They all niggle at me. I’m not afraid, not for myself or by the thought of facing Schwarz again, but I’m worried, nearly to the point of distraction, about the others. And this… this *all consuming* sense of concern… is yet another cause of worry to me. By opening myself up like this, am I running the risk of losing focus, of concentrating more on protecting my friends than on the task at hand? I just don’t know and wish that I did. There was a time -- in the not too distant past -- when my only emotions were hatred and a lust for revenge and I vowed to never allow myself to care about another ever again. I thought, by locking myself away and by, basically, refusing to engage with the ‘real’ world, that I’d be safe, that I could be left alone to do as I pleased -- no questions asked, my life no one’s business other than my own. 

For a while, it worked too. Being on the dangerously close side of becoming a sociopath -- the truth, and I’m a firm believer in this, while painful, can be neither ignored nor sugar coated -- at the time, I was probably even quite content with my lot. No friends, no one alive who cared whether I lived or died. All I had as my constant companion was my quest for revenge. If there was more to life then I not only couldn’t see it but, what’s more, I didn’t *want* to see it. Again, it worked well enough for me. Having to deal with having people around me was a waste of time and effort that I simply couldn’t afford.

Crashers though -- and this, their stubbornness, is why I refuse to accept that the reason they’re currently unable to be contacted is because they’re dead –- just wouldn’t take no for an answer. God alone knows why. Thinking back -- given that I’m sure I was like a rabid animal that, really, should have been put down for reasons of both pity and mercy -- I have no idea why they even bothered. In the end though, after fighting and snapping and generally behaving like a right pain in the ass, I begrudgingly accepted that acting surly and anti-social wasn’t exactly achieving anything and that I may as well -- bide my time -- knuckle down and get on with it. It wasn’t an easy transition, as being defensive came more naturally to me than, well, actually -- giving a shit -- participating in anything, but, with effort, I forced myself to adapt. 

Over time, Weiss, and Yohji in particular, managed to finish the thawing process Crashers kick started. From being a lone wolf I found myself a part of a pack that not only looked out for me but who I also, to my surprise, found myself wanting to protect in turn. Friends, a lover who accepted me unconditionally, a new… family.

Things, although I’d never expected them to be ever again, were good. I was even, for all too brief a time, happy. 

The disintegration of Weiss hurt. Not as much, admittedly, as the death of my parents and what happened to my sister, but it still wounded me. Alone again, instead of reverting back to my old self-absorbed and self-contained ways though, I discovered that I missed being a part of a team. Although I tried to draw a sense of satisfaction, of detached comfort, from the fact I no longer had anyone to care for other than myself, all I felt was empty… and alone. Hating my own company and feeling adrift in an eternal sea of nothingness, Krypton Brand coming along was, like Crashers and Weiss before it, a Godsend. Having missed the sense of camaraderie that comes with being part of such a close-knit team, I even welcomed, as we all gradually adjusted to each other, everyone’s friendship. 

Now though, separated from my friends and alone on the rooftop of the house I’ve come to think of as home, I can’t help but worry that I’ve now perhaps passed the point of no return. From one extreme to another. From not caring to caring too much about too many. I’m worried about the whereabouts of Crashers… about Omi… about everyone else currently being in transit… about what we’re going to come up against in Tokyo and whether everyone will be able to deal with it…

Yuki and Michel, trusting their care to KR and Mihirogi and the fortress-like compound in Switzerland, I’m sure will be fine. I’m also not overly concerned about how Free’s going to take things either. Of everyone -- and, although I hate to admit it, I include myself here as well -- I think he’s the one best equipped to simply focus on the task and not get sidetracked. I know he’s got a, relatively non eventful by the sound of it, past with Schwarz, and I now know how -- privately -- close he and Chloé are, but I’m still confident, out of all of us, he’ll be the one most likely to remain fully in control. 

As for Ken, Yohji, and Chloé though… Christ. Just don’t go there.

Ken, who’s highly strung by nature and who has almost made an art form of acting first and thinking second, is too close to what’s happening and I’m worried about his subjectivity. When it comes to Omi, who I know he still loves more than anything else on earth, Ken simply doesn’t have an ‘off’ switch. He’ll agitate and he’ll run around and he’ll inch closer and closer to breaking point until he either snaps in two or Omi’s safe. And, what’s more, there’s not a damn thing anyone will be able to do to stop him or even hold him back. I’ll… *we’ll*… try, but I know now we’ll merely be wasting our breath, that our entreaties will fall on deaf ears. Ken’s focus, unlike Free’s, will be blinkered. Very, very blinkered. 

Yohji, on the other hand, as much this pains me, is something of an unknown entity. He’s as fit as he ever was, and I don’t doubt his abilities, but… Without wanting to sound too clinical or judgmental or anything, his heart’s just not in it. In a sense it’s as though he’s… detached… from what’s happening. He hasn’t said anything but I know Yohji and I know how to read him. Unlike Free, Chloé, Ken, and myself, he has no actual recollection of Schwarz and no real idea of the malevolent power they wield. He’s read about them, and he’s heard us talk about them, but that’s it. Until he saw Schuldig perform his gratuitous coup de théâtre on the live feed from Omi’s office he could have fallen over the telepath in the street and been in complete oblivion as to who he was and what he represents. And, while twenty-four hours ago this might not have necessarily been a bad thing, now I can’t help but feel that it’s something that works against him. Sure, he can tap into our caution, and we can talk him through our shared history, tell him everything we know, but it’s not the same. Fear *can* come from being force fed the cold hard facts, but a true sense of self-preservation and, in a way, *respect* comes from remembering past encounters. Reading about Schuldig is one thing, but the actual memory of how he moves and operates is something else again, something infinitely more valuable. 

I *know* Yohji will fight, that he’ll do whatever he can to achieve our goal of rescuing Omi and thwarting whatever it is Schwarz is currently embroiled in, but I’m just afraid that he doesn’t really know what it is he’s getting himself in to. Or, for that matter, *why*. Again, while he hasn’t said anything, I can’t shake the feeling that, memory wise, Omi means as little to him as Schwarz does. He’s seen pictures, heard the stories, spoken to him on the phone, yeah, but, ultimately, he doesn’t know him. Unlike Ken, who he’s had constantly in his face and who he’s come to know if not remember, Omi has only been a character in a somewhat fantastical -- allegedly factual -- story about his past and a faint voice on the other end of a phone line thousands of kilometers away. If Yohji can confess to knowing him at all then it’s solely as Takatori Mamoru, the young heir who took an interest in a down on his luck amnesiac by the name of Itou Yohji. Everything else is basically just conjecture. 

And, yes, Yohji’s lack of memory in relation to both Schwarz and Omi *is* of considerable concern. While I never thought it’d come to this, for the first time in my life I’m actually glad that I carry the memories of my previous encounters with Schwarz with me. Because of this I know both not to underestimate them and that whatever it is that’s waiting for us in Tokyo is going to be -- no doubt, extremely -- unpleasant. Yohji *thinks* it’s going to be bad, going from our reactions to Omi’s abduction, but he doesn’t *know* and this, in turn, makes him vulnerable, a weak link. And Schuldig, having no doubt perfected the ability as an infant, can smell weakness a mile away.

Weakness equates to easy prey and easy prey, in turn, equates to victory.

Which leads me to Chloé, my next and possibly greatest cause of concern. Chloé, for all his, to some, eccentricities and foppishness, isn’t weak. In fact, not once have I ever had any reason to consider him anything less than as strong as myself. Our skill levels are evenly matched, he’s never failed -- to my knowledge -- to achieve his objective, I’ve seen him get up and push on when, really, he should have been down for the count, and, perhaps more importantly than anything, I trust him to watch my back. He might feel things too keenly, sure, and there are times when it mightn’t take much to upset him, but, those -- human -- points aside, he’s still one of the strongest people that I know.

But he wasn’t always as strong as he is now. 

During his time at Rosenkrus, his low level telepathy and affinity for plants, felines and birds making him one of the less promising -- read, psychopathic and… *useful* -- students, he was basically prey for those bigger and stronger than he was. To be more succinct, he was Schuldig’s pet victim. While he wouldn’t go into detail, and even sharing this small fact with me seemed to take its toll on him as we drove down to Kent this morning, I know now that the scars on his wrists are courtesy of Schuldig’s overbearing, sadistic influence and that, if he’d been allowed to have his way, he simply would have ended it then and there, that he simply didn’t feel as though he could take the relentless abuse any longer.

He survived… somehow… though and, again, *somehow* managed to escape both Schuldig and Rosenkrus. I have no idea how -- and no amount of wheedling or issuing forth with petulant-sounding demands would, much to my annoyance, get an answer from him -- but he escaped and, along with freedom, found the strength to fight. While I don’t think it was anything as simple as never wanting to find himself on the bottom of the pecking order again, he put his ordeal aside and concentrated both on learning to fight the ‘normal, human way’ and on accepting himself for what he was. And, in time, free from Schuldig and his trainee minions, he shook off Rosenkrus and, with hard work and effort, turned himself into the man I now know and am proud to call my friend. 

There’s more to it than that though. A *lot* more. A lot more that Chloé clearly doesn’t feel comfortable with sharing with me and that, regardless of whether he wants to admit it or not, colors who he is today. Although I’d like, simply because he’s my friend and don’t want to ever inadvertently say or do the wrong thing to hurt him, to know the whole story, it’s not something I can really push him on. Talking about his time at Rosenkrus upsets him and he’s evasive to the point of all but clamming up about both how he managed to escape and what eventually led him to Krypton Brand. There’s a part of me, the part that knows Chloé’s possibly the only person who I hold no secrets from, that’s annoyed about his refusal to talk but, ultimately, I can’t really blame him. I have no doubt whatsoever that the whole Rosenkrus experience, coupled with whatever Schuldig put him through, would have been horrific and that, it having been years -- a lifetime -- ago, he probably feels as though sharing it with me would be little more than an exercise in futility. It annoys me, yeah, but it’s not *about* me and, regardless of how much it pisses me off, I just have to accept that. 

There is one other thing I know for certain however and that’s that, there being some wounds that never truly heal, Chloé’s scared of Schuldig. While he hasn’t come out and said it in as many words, he doesn’t have to. His -- at the time odd and baseless -- behavior after what happened at Wapping coupled with his reaction and subsequent breakdown over the manner in which Kettleman was killed, all point in the direction of a true, unshakeable fear. He’ll face him, and I don’t doubt this for a second, because he’s decided -- for the team -- he has to, but at what cost? Will forcing himself to confront Schuldig again take too much out of him and prove to be little more than a Pyrrhic victory? 

I can appreciate his motives -- loyalty, the ‘never say die’ motto that comes part and parcel with our line of work, determination -- but, having experienced the same sense of fear myself, I can also understand the considerable personal risk he’s running and wish I could somehow offer him an easy way out of it all. 

Ken still refuses to believe it and Yohji, before he lost his memory, still doubted it to be the truth, but -- after what he’d done to me -- I never wanted to *see* Kimura again, let alone face up to him. I hated him, and I wanted him dead more than just about anything, sure, but the thought of ever being anywhere near him again was enough to make me break out into a cold sweat. If I could have just pushed a button and blown him to bits from the safety of a hundred miles away then I wouldn’t have hesitated, but… 

But, to actually face him? To feel the icy caress of his glacial eyes gazing over me once more?

Not on your life. Just… no. Uh-uh. No fucking way.

Having so thoroughly and systematically abused and demoralized me, I was terrified of Kimura. Absolutely terrified of him. I’d never been scared of Takatori or his insane offspring, or of either Schwarz or Schrient, but Kimura was something entirely different. Unlike even Takatori’s senseless destruction of my family, he’d made me actively long for death. And that, as far as I was concerned anyway, was an achievement to be wary of. Not only that but, and there was no escaping this fact, the only reason I managed to survive at all was because the others hadn’t, unlike I had, given up on me. If not for Yohji, Ken, and Omi, Kimura would have -- and, again, this is inescapable -- won. I couldn’t protect myself from him, I was scared of him and, when it was finally all over and I was able to claw back some semblance of sanity and life, I never wanted to see him again. Never. Ever. 

But…

To live up to the faith the other’s had in me and to, ultimately, repay Yohji’s care and devotion, I found the strength to quash my fears and, because I had to, faced Kimura again. It wasn’t easy, and I know that if I’d been on my own or the circumstances had been any different that I may have balked or frozen, but I did it. In a sense, seeing him train the gun on Yohji made it easy as, instead of it being about me it was about *protection*. If I didn’t act, if I gave in to my doubts and listened to Kimura try and drag me back down again, then someone I’d come to care about was going to die.

So, for my friend, for someone who happened to believe in me when I hadn’t, I found the will to go forward.

I didn’t kill Kimura for revenge over what he reduced me to. No. I killed him to protect Yohji, the other members of Weiss and, although they weren’t high on my list of priorities at the time, any future victims who may have unwittingly crossed his path.

Friends. Loyalty. Trust. Comfort…

Revenge. Hatred. Power. Justice - be it moral or immoral…

The reasons for fighting are many and varied. To begin with I fought with vengeance bubbling in my blood and had nothing to lose. Now I fight to protect the innocent and the few that have somehow been able to slip past my defenses and that I hold close to my heart. And, yes, this means I’m -- constantly -- open to the possibility of more loss. 

Sometimes, like now, when I’m worrying myself silly about the fate of men who are nothing -- in their own ways -- if not as strong as I am, I wonder if I’m any better off than I was pre-Crashers. Back then I didn’t have anyone to worry about and no sense of obligation to anyone other than myself and my obsessive quest for revenge in the name of my sister. Things were simple and effortless. 

They were also, however, unpleasant and… empty. I existed, but I didn’t live.

Now, I live, both for myself and for those around me. And, more often than not, I’m happy with my lot. I may have opened myself up to potential weakness but, well, what of it? While I may have once believed that revenge was the be all and end all, I now think… no… *know*… strength comes more from family and friends. If I didn’t believe in anything, in *them*, I’d believe in nothing and would have nothing to fight for. Nor would I still be here.

The sound of an odd, slightly old fashioned car horn honking below in the street breaking through my increasingly garbled and going-nowhere-fast train of thought, I shake my head and gravitate over to the edge of the roof. Looking down, I catch sight of the brake lights of Mr Aston’s British Racing Green E Type Jaguar as it all but fishtails going around the corner and have to smile to myself. As much as Mr Aston gripes about the car to -- his number one, captive fan -- Yohji in respect to it costing him a fortune and how it’s becoming harder and harder every year to get it to pass its M.O.T., the E Type is his pride and joy and, in a truly vicarious sort of way, everyone in the neighborhood gets a thrill whenever it drives past. I swear Yohji, in particular, nearly turns green with envy every time he sees it and I honestly thought he was going to burst a blood vessel in happiness when Mr Aston offered to take him for a drive in it one day. When he came back, sunburnt and windswept, he raved about the experience and how his life wasn’t complete without his own E Type until it nearly reached the point where I was beginning to contemplate gagging him to shut him up. 

Chloé, who likes the car well enough for its aesthetic lines and beautiful color but who would rather have teeth extracted than travel in it because it’s a convertible, is of the opinion that we may as well just buy one for Yohji. He couches it in terms of wanting to keep Yohji from chewing the ear off poor old Mr Aston but I think it’s just because he’d like Yohji to have something he thinks he wants. Given that we all have the cars we *think* we want -- and the Audi that got blown to pieces outside the warehouse has already, no questions asked, been replaced -- and because Chloé’s right, it *would* be a nice thing to do, we’ve got Mr Aston making inquiries for us at his Jaguar club about any E Types that might be coming up for sale. KR doesn’t care -- “Well, you *do* have to have access to your own vehicle.” -- one way or the other and, or so we’re hoping anyway, with any luck we’ll have one by Christmas.

Assuming we’re still around, of course. 

Sighing, I toy with the idea of phoning Mr Aston and telling him to hold off his search for a while but, unable to come up with a believable excuse, quickly decide against it. Besides, he looked so overjoyed when Chloé and I approached him for his ‘expertise’ that I’d hate to disappoint him now. His wife of fifty-two years having Alzheimer’s and living in a nursing home in the next suburb -- every Wednesday, without fail, he comes into the shop for a bouquet of roses to take her, which is how we’ve come to know him so well -- I don’t think Mr Aston has a lot to do with his time other than tinker with his car and think he felt somewhat honored about being able to assist us with our ‘search’.

Happy sounding giggling floating up to reach me, I crouch down and glance up the street. Seeing the Crowder family -- father, mother, big brother, middle sister, little brother, younger sister, pet dog -- walking home from the bus stop, my smile returns and a sense of calmness descends on me as I watch them make their way down the street. Like a lot of people from around here, they’re regulars in the shop and I know them all by name and, the females, by flower preferences. The mother, April, likes orchids while Tamara, the middle sister adores sunflowers (and Ken, but, hey, to each their own…). Charlotte, the youngest, loves pansies and violas because she can ‘see’ faces in them and because of their soft petals. Mr Crowder, a broad shouldered construction worker who looks as though he could bench press a double decker bus, comes in after work every Friday and buys flowers for all of his girls. The biggest bunch, as always, being for Charlotte.

Charlotte, who has Down’s Syndrome and who’s just so sweet and adorable that -- and it doesn’t matter which one of us is serving at the time -- we always put extra effort into the bouquet and overdo it with the ribbons because we know how much she likes untying -- “Look Free! Look Aya! Mummy taught me how to undo things!” -- the bows. 

Charlotte, who doesn’t know the meaning of the word evil and who relies on those around her to look after her and keep her safe. Her family, even her ‘cool’ older brothers, love her to death and I’ve never seen a family so devoted to each other before. Watching them now, the two boys teasing Tamara about something while Charlotte bounces along, splashing through puddles under her black, cat-eared umbrella in front of her parents, I don’t feel jealous of their simple togetherness so much as I do protective of it. While, essentially, they’re nothing to me, I *know* these people, just as I do a great number of our customers, and I want to *continue* knowing them. I may not want to see them outside of the shop, but that doesn’t mean I can’t, in my own way, still be interested in their lives.

I never understood the whole ‘flower shop’ deal before but I think now, better late than never, I finally get the reasoning behind it. It’s not irony or a bad joke -- contrary to Yohji’s opinion on the subject -- that makes the Kritiker’s and the KR’s of the world place their assassin teams in flower shops… No. It’s to reinforce reality and the fact that there’s more to life than the missions and the ‘dark beasts’. Without the shop we’d be little more than killers and would exist -- in stasis -- solely for the purpose of killing. This way though, as much as it may sometimes piss us off, we’ve got something to get up for in the morning, something to *care* about. The flowers, making the orders, perfecting the bouquets, engaging with members of the public…

*Living*.

What’s more, it works too. Courtesy of the shop and the work we have to put into it, we’re accepted as part of the neighborhood and we’re able to function as ‘normal’ members of society. 

Free, before leaving this morning, took me aside and asked whether I’d mind being the one to empty the fridge because he didn’t want to do it while the others were around for fear of upsetting them. There being some things neither Yuki nor Michel need to be made aware of -- and the possibility that none of us will ever return is but one of them -- I confirmed that I’d take care of it and, an unsettling thought entering my mind, very nearly asked if he’d seen something ominous in the Tarot relating to our future. Not sure that I wanted to know, I didn’t though and now, alone with my ever increasing sense of worry and dread, almost wish that I had. Then again…

Would -- and this, I’m sure, applies to all of us -- I turn my back on loyalty and on friendship and not go to Tokyo if it had been written in the cards that I was going to die there? The answer, of course, is no. Be it the equivalent of painting a target on my back and walking out into the middle of a shooting range or not, I have to go. To my way of thinking, I have no choice. And, should I be going to my death then… so be it. 

We, and I’m talking about the entire human race here, live with the threat of the Grim Reaper pointing his scythe at us every day of our lives. While you could live to be ninety, you just as easily could succumb to disease or be involved in a fatal motor accident at a far earlier an age. Every second of every day, people die. It’s a fact of life. Without wanting to sound too pessimistic, you’re basically on the road to your grave from the very moment of conception. My life may, granted, be more risky than that of the average office worker but, ultimately, death comes to all of us. While some might say I all but court death in my line of work, really, in the grand scheme of things, what I do matters little. Be it tomorrow or in fifty years time, I’m going to die. As is everyone… Chloé, Yohji, Schuldig, the President of the United States, the lunatic in the black Cougar who thought it was a good idea to weave amongst the traffic on the M20 this afternoon while holding an animated conversation on his mobile phone, Mr Aston… *Everyone*. 

I don’t *want* to die anymore than I want to see tombstones erected in the memory of my friends, but… one of these days… I will. Be it written in the Tarot or not, it’s already written in the stars. And, again, if I’m to die in Tokyo then, well, there’s not a lot I can do about it. Besides, I’m nothing if not used to living with the Reaper’s scythe poised over my neck. It may not be obvious -- the words ‘happy-go-lucky’ mean nothing to me -- but I already live each day as it comes. I despise shocks, and most likely could quite happily become the world’s most boring person if it were to mean things would always coast along on a pleasant, even keel, but I’m *used* to them. Just as I’m used to fighting both for my life and for what I believe in.

Basically, while, accepting of its inevitability, I’m not *afraid* of death and will nonetheless throw everything I’ve got into the task of staving it off. I *want* to live and I *want* things to continue as they have been. And if Schuldig and whoever the mad bastard is that’s currently holding the telepath’s leash really want a fight then, well, they’ve got it. We may still be fumbling around in the dark, and we may very well be walking into a trap, but it’s a risk we’re all willingly taking.

For Omi. For Mr Aston and the Crowders and all the other innocents. For the greater good. To stand up to personal demons. To fight evil. To stand up and be counted instead of turning a blind eye and feigning ignorance.

To save the day. To struggle to keep what we hold dear close.

To… win… at whatever cost.

And that, really, is all there is to it. Nothing else matters. Not what Schuldig and Co have got up their sleeves for us, not my concerns about the others… *nothing*. Whether it’s for our own reasons or not, we’ll all fight because we’ve got too much to lose if we don’t.

Standing up, I take one last look at the now empty street and walk inside. To hell with totally cleaning out the fridge. I’ll tip out the perishables but, seeing as I don’t plan to be gone long, the jams and sauces and the like can stay put.

~*~*~*~*~*~

“But, sir, for the same price you can get the next model up, the Nokia…”

“Thank you, but this one will do fine,” I interrupt, drumming my fingers on the counter and idly wondering what exactly it is I have to do to get it through the shop assistant’s apparently quite thick skull that I’m happy with the phone I’ve chosen. “Now, please, if you’d see to the paperwork, I’ll…”

“But, sir…” Widening her over-made-up eyes, she gives me a beseeching look and shakes her head. “This model only has a very limited number of covers available for it.”

Ah. Wonderful. So that’s what this is all about. She’s concerned that I’m about to make some hideous fashion faux pas by not buying a phone that I’ll be able to co-ordinate with my shoes and belt. How nice and caring of her. Well… It’s either that or her goal for the day is to sell some sucker the phone casing emblazoned with that stupid yellow bird-thing from Final Fantasy on it that’s taking pride of place in the point-of-sale display next to the cash register. 

Oh… And look, when the phone rings its eyes light up and flash. How utterly… tasteless.

“The case it comes in is all that I require. “I pointedly glance at my watch and increase the tempo of my drumming. “Now, while I’m grateful for your assistance I really am in a hurry and would appreciate if this transaction could perhaps be sped up.”

Realizing that it would take more than a flashing bird-thing to save me from my fate as that of a lost cause, the shop assistant gives me a long suffering sigh and nods. “As sir wishes,” she murmurs flatly, picking up my chosen phone with a look of distaste and placing it back in the display. “I’ll just get one from the storeroom and will be back to finish the sale in a moment.”

“That would be lovely,” I respond politely, stilling my fingers on the countertop and smiling. “You’ve been very helpful.”

Watching the shop assistant return with a small box and begin to ring up the sale, I bite back a sigh and hope that it doesn’t take long for Ken and Yohji to contact me. Not knowing what we’d be getting ourselves into in Tokyo and wanting to takes things extremely carefully, the phone, once it’s activated, will alert Ken to the fact that I’ve arrived. He’ll then, if all goes to plan, text me with the address details of the temporary base he’s located for us and I’ll be able to make my way there to meet up with them. 

As it currently stands, I have no idea where any of the others are. I don’t even know if they’re safe. Their planes didn’t crash -- and my careful monitoring of the news heralded no fatal car crashes in either France or Switzerland; meaning, I hope, that Free and Chloé are okay too -- so I’m assuming they landed in Narita safely. But, well, what happened to them after leaving the airport is anyone’s guess.

My own flight was as tedious and as uneventful as only traveling a long haul route in first class is capable of. Presented to perfection but tasteless food, enough free flowing alcohol for six passengers to keep an American collage football team drunk for a week, bored looking flight attendants wandering around and, as regular as clockwork, repeating the same questions ad nauseam. ‘Would sir like another drink?’ ‘Another pillow, sir?’ ‘Are things to your satisfaction?’ It was all so boring and choreographed that I probably even would have fallen asleep if not for the overweight and under-deodorized businessman sitting to my right and snoring like a traction engine. As it was though, because of him, I spent the entire flight alternating my time between checking news stations, watching the plane data screen with the distance and time to Narita being counted down on it, going over and over all my many points of concern in my head, and, just for something different, wishing considerable ill will towards the obnoxiously loud and odorous businessman. 

Worse, every time I caught a whiff of him I longed to have either Yohji or Chloé next to me to protect me from it. While Chloé and his ever present scent of roses would have been preferable, even Yohji’s nicotine and Cool Water aftershave would have been a vast improvement. Hell, I think I even would have welcomed Ken and that ghastly Adidas aftershave -- or eau de football player and wet boot leather as Chloé calls it -- he so favors.

I think, when all is said and done, I’m rapidly going off flying by myself. If I’m not stuck next to horrible teenagers then it’s offensive, stinky businessmen. Next time I fly anywhere by myself I’ll probably score some middle-aged woman who still thinks she’s twenty-one and will hit on me for the duration of the flight and then, that’ll just be it, I’ll have myself three strikes and a lifetime phobia for flying.

Placing my non-video-non-photo-non-trendy-boring-as-shit phone into a bag, the shop assistant slides a receipt along the counter for me to sign and, in a monotone, rattles off a list of instructions that I don’t listen to as I scrawl my false signature on the dotted line. Taking the bag from her, I thank her again for her assistance before finally, a *long* twenty minutes after first asking to buy a phone, picking up my luggage and moving away from the stall.

Coming to a stop just around the corner, I put my bags back down and pull the phone out of its box. Slipping the sim card into the back, I place the battery and the cover over it and turn it on. Despite being, in the shop assistant’s mind, an affront to mobile’s everywhere, the phone’s still technologically savvy enough for it to tell me hello in a metallic sounding voice and, not expecting to hear the damn thing talk at me, I very nearly drop it in shock.

Shaking my head at such a futile use of technology, I check the screen to ensure that it is indeed activated before locking the keypad and placing it in my pocket. The phone side of things taken care of, I throw both the box and bag into a nearby bin before picking up my luggage and making my way over to a car rental stand. 

To my -- and I’m not certain given the number of traffic accidents that occur daily in and around Tokyo whether this is the right word to use -- relief, obtaining a hire car is a hell of a lot easier than buying a phone and ten, stress-free minutes later I’m throwing my suitcase and laptop into the boot of a white Toyota. Just like it was in London when I left this morning, it’s raining at Narita and I grab my umbrella out of my bag before shutting the trunk and climbing into the driver’s seat. 

Home.

Tokyo. Japan.

As the place of both my birth and the arena for the majority of my dominant memories, I’m now… home. 

Yet… curiously… while there was a once a time when I never thought I’d leave, that I’d never be content anywhere else, I now feel… little… for Tokyo. Despite its past hold on me, there’s nothing to hold me here now and I can’t deny that I now consider London to be my home. Not my ‘base’, but my *home*. For the first time I’ve even taken tentative steps to personalize my room, to make myself comfortable. 

Tokyo. The last time I was here was over four months ago when I suffered a momentary lack of sanity and dragged Yohji into Krypton Brand. 

Yohji…

… Oh God, please let him and everyone else be okay.

Ferreting the phone out of my pocket, I place it on the passenger seat where I can see it and turn the key in the ignition. The flick of my wrist causing my charm bracelet to jingle, I stare down at it and sigh. Although, not seeing the point, I hadn’t been going to bring the bracelet with me, something made me change my mind just as the cab pulled up to take me to Gatwick and, totally on the spur-of-the-moment, I decided to grab it after all. Yohji had his pendant with him -- and I knew that for a fact because I’d made sure of it before kicking him out of the car at Heathrow -- and, well… You know, why not?

Not wanting to keep the cab driver waiting, I’d snatched the bracelet out of the black lacquer box without looking at it and just shoved it in my pocket. That done, I promptly forgot about it until, in desperate need of a diversion from the fat businessman’s symphonic snoring, I pulled it out on the plane to see if it needed cleaning or not. To my surprise though, along with the -- *expected* -- silver ankhs and mother-of-pearl crosses, there were four new charms hanging from the bracelet. A rose, a tarot card, a shamrock, and a pair of spectacles…

Krypton Brand entwined with Weiss. Past and present melded.

Not even knowing instinctively that it would have been Chloé who’d placed the charms there could lessen the shock of seeing them any and, taken aback, all I could do for a good ten minutes was clutch the bracelet in my hand, embedding the links and the charms into my palm. I then, having made my mind up to embrace the meanings attached to the charms, secured it on my right wrist. And it’s there that I plan for it to remain until all of this is over.

Pinching the rose charm between thumb and index finger, I sigh again and rest my forehead against the steering wheel. Although I know it’s the last thing Chloé would have wanted, instead of being able to accept his gesture with gratitude and happiness, what I feel from it is an almost overwhelming sense of guilt and failure. 

First Yohji and his ‘surprise’ at the castle, and now Chloé with his charms and their implied bond… Both of my friends have clearly thought of me and put significant effort into planning something they knew that I’d like and would have meaning for me, and what have I done for them in return?

Nothing. A big fat fuck all.

No. Hang on. That’s not entirely true. Yohji, I hurt with my initial refusal to go swimming and general lackluster response and Chloé I upset with my constant lecturing and badgering on the way down to Kent. 

They both touch me in ways I can hardly even comprehend -- I mean, what’s in it for them? -- and all I give them back is hurt and pain. Hell, too busy with planning and bossing I didn’t even spare so much as a fleeting thought to doing something pleasant for someone else. Yet… While I was packing and dictating, Yohji and Chloé were finding the time from somewhere to plan surprises for me. They were thinking of me and all I was thinking about was ensuring things were going to plan and whether I’d finally be able to succeed in convincing Chloé to stay, for his own good, in Switzerland.

And, fuck it, I’m just not worth their care and attention. If anything, given that they clearly don’t need to invest in the ‘Idiot’s Guide To Thinking Of Others’ like I do, they’d be better off just writing me off as bad joke. Seriously. Whatever it is they see in me that’s worth their effort is beyond me. I’m like some sort of parasite. I take and I take and I take and that -- I’m convinced of it -- is just about it. God knows I don’t feel as though I give anything in return. My time? My company? My… body?

Whatever -- little -- it is, they could do better. Both of them.

Still… With such shining examples to guide me, perhaps, when this is over and we’re back home again, with an extraordinary effort, I’ll be able to come up with some sort of way -- that doesn’t involve flowers or a Hallmark card -- to express my eternal gratitude. Wanting to give some small portion of everything they’ve done for me back to them, it’s not the incentive I’m lacking so much as it is the know how. I *want* to give, to be able to do small things to surprise people, but I just don’t know how to. Unlike to Yohji and Chloé, it’s just not something that comes naturally to me.

Rousing myself from my going nowhere -- same old, same old -- reverie, I lift my head and pull my seatbelt on. Making a note of the time, I decide to give Ken two hours to contact me before switching to Plan B, the plan of last resort, and calling Mihirogi for information and advice on what I should do next. 

There being nothing, mission wise, for me to do but wait during this limbo time, I reverse out of the parking space and drive out of Narita, a very specific destination suddenly calling to me. Having chosen seeing Yohji over paying my usual visit last time I was in Tokyo, it’s been too long and I brace myself for the inevitable pain of what’s waiting for me when I get there. Despite the years that have past and the tears that have been shed, the pain never lessens and it’s always the same. The heartache and loss… The flood of memories…

Switching the windscreen wipers on to counteract the relentless rain, I struggle to keep my thoughts from once again turning inwards and concentrate on my driving. Like on the M20 the day before, the rain is making everyone drive like utter lunatics and, by the time I’m nearing my destination, I’ve seen five accidents and been involved in three near misses. I’ve also had to -- with a colorful array of words that would have done Ken proud and resulted in Chloé trying to disappear into the seat in mortification -- share with a dozen or so motorists the inexcusable fact that they can’t drive for shit and that if I had my way they’d never be allowed on a road again. One woman -- driving a Barbie pink Celica with a row of Hello Kitty’s bunched up on the back window -- in particular I even had to curse in Japanese, English, *and* German for her continued, some might even say inspired, stupidity. 

Things improve slightly once I’m off the motorway though and, as I’m coming up on the flower shop I always call in on first, even the rain begins to let up. Relieved by both of these facts, some of the motorway-caused tension is slipping away from my shoulders when, through the windscreen, I see it.

A neon, purple and green chibi style dragon wearing a backwards baseball cap…

A neon, purple and green chibi style dragon wearing a backwards baseball cap taking pride of place on the roof of the -- nice, respectable -- family run flower shop I’d always known as ‘Broomin’ Loverly’.

And… Ack! Bloody Yukio and his quest to turn every flower shop in Japan into part of his Dragon’s Tears -- *vision* -- franchise. I mean, destroying such a wonderful bastardization of the English language as ‘Broomin’ Loverly’ in the name of dominating the market share. Doesn’t he know some things are just sacred?

Parking the car in front of the shop, I cringe at the garish color scheme -- purple outer walls with green inner walls adding up to almost make me wish that I was colorblind -- and think longingly of our nice white store in Islington. The colors are so bright -- and *clashing* -- that they completely blitz the flower displays in the window and, getting out of the car, I can’t help but wonder how the franchise has become so popular. Sure, the bouquets look good enough, but the rap music being played at a volume loud enough to be heard out in the street is atrocious and, again, the colors are just… wrong. 

Oh.

Honestly. Sometimes I’m so naïve and stupid that it’s just not funny.

Stepping through the door into the shop, I come face to face with a young man who looks as though he’s sprung to life from the pages of a glossy fashion magazine and, yeah, everything suddenly makes perfect sense to me. 

Dragon’s Tears methodology 101. Women buy far more flowers than men. Women, when it comes to what they find attractive, are as vapid and as easily led as men. Women like to ogle hot men just as the average straight man likes to perve at hot women. Women like to spend money. Ergo, put hot men and flowers and enough merchandise to fill the White House together and you’re on to a sure-fire, guaranteed success. End of class.

Undulating over -- and, not being a woman and not caring in the slightest that he’s wearing Calvin Klein underpants, I wish he could have made the effort to pull his jeans up before greeting me -- the Adonis flashes me a look at his pearly white teeth and slaps me on the back.

“Yo, man!” he exclaims, not looking at all perturbed by the death glare I shoot him for daring to touch me and, very rudely in my books, blowing a bubble of pink gum. “What can I get ya, huh? A special flower for a special lady?”

“Not at all,” I retort huffily, taking a step away from him in the vain hope he sees it as the hint to keep his hands to himself that it is. “I’d actually like…”

“Hmm…” he interrupts, giving me a knowing wink and, just to be creative, reaching out and flicking a lock of my hair away from my neck. “How about that special… man, huh? C’mon, dude, there’s no need to be shy. Hell, ‘cos there’s no girls around I don’t mind saying that I wouldn’t say no to you myself.”

First he calls me dude and now he’s coming onto me? Fuck. If I see Yukio in my travels I’m going to give him an earful about this idiot.

“You mightn’t say no,” I grind out, batting his hand away and only just resisting the urge to snap a finger for the sheer hell of it, “but I would. Now, I’d like a simple bouquet of…”

“Aaw… C’mon, man, there’s no need to be like that,” he whines while giving me a kicked puppy-dog look. “I was just trying to be friendly.”

“As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted,” I state flatly, ignoring his interruption and pushing ahead, “I’d like a simple bouquet of white roses and, before you ask and despite it being none of your Goddamn business, they’re to place on the grave of my parents.” Pausing, I fold my arms across my chest and glare at him. “Assuming that’s all right with you, of course.”

“Ah. Of c-course,” he stutters and has the decency to blush as his two brain cells finally connect and deliver to him the important facts of life that I’m not his friend, that I don’t actually like him, and that -- above and beyond everything else -- I’m a customer that he’s being paid to serve. “If you don’t mind waiting I’ll just go into the back and prepare it for you.”

Having got my way, I throw him a bone in the form of a smile and nod. “Thank you. That would be most kind.”

“I’ll be right back,” the man murmurs, giving a token gesture bow before, no doubt with relief, slipping into the sanctuary of the storeroom. 

Alone in the shop, I start to walk over to the window display to get a better look at some of the bouquets when, without fanfare, the thumping rap music being belted out of the speakers gives way to the smooth, overproduced sounds of American Top 40 R’n’B. Smirking to myself -- am I really *that* scary? -- I pick through the flower arrangements, silently impressed with the store’s work. While some are a little sloppy, on the a whole the bouquets are well done and, wanting to give praise where praise is due, I decide that I have to revise my opinion of the whole Dragon’s Tear’s experience.

“Sir?” the young florist states tentatively, walking out of the storeroom, my requested bouquet held out in front of him. “Is this acceptable?”

“It’s perfect, thank you,” I reply, taking the flowers from him and lightly fingering the pale green tissue paper he’s wrapped them in. “You’ve done a good job,” I add magnanimously before digging my wallet out of my pocket and walking over to the counter to pay. “I would have done them exactly the same way.”

“Excuse me? Are you…” Remembering who it is he’s talking to -- Mr Surly No-Fun -- he stops himself and settles for giving me a puzzled look before moving behind the counter. Ringing up the sale on the register, he gives me the price of the bouquet and, taking some notes out of my wallet, I pay him. “I’m sorry, you know, about before,” he murmurs shyly as he hands me my change. “It’s just that this ain’t my store… I’m minding it today for a friend… and I’d forgotten that it’s near a cemetery. So… yeah… I’m sorry…” Trailing off, he shrugs and toys with a strand of long, jet black hair. “It’s just, you know, I’m used to working the city crowd and they’re a lot less… touchy.”

Letting his unintentional insult wash over me, I pocket my change and, this time, flash him a genuine smile. “It’s okay,” I reply, moving towards the door. “Besides, you know now. Again, however, thank you for the lovely bouquet. You really have done a good job.”

“Thanks,” he grins, walking out from behind the counter and giving me a little wave as I open the door. “One thing though…” he continues cheekily, “I still wouldn’t say no.”

Shaking my head, I control the urge to laugh and, letting the door close gently behind me, walk back to the car. Getting in, I check the phone for any messages and when there aren’t any, throw it back down onto the seat in annoyance.

Come on, Ken. Hop to it. I’m here and I’m waiting. Where are you?

Choosing to feign blissful ignorance to the fact that I’m now over an hour into the two hours I’ve allocated Ken to get in contact with me, I start the car and drive the short distance from the Dragon’s Tears to the cemetery. Something going my way for the first time today, the rain stops just as I pull into the carpark and, getting out of the car, I decide to make the risky decision not to bother stuffing around with my umbrella. If I get a little wet then I get a little wet. It’s not as though I plan to be here very long anyway.

Hello. I love you, miss you, and hope that you’re at peace. Goodbye. 

It’s always the same. Duty and ingrained comfort wrapped up in the suffocating arms of futility.

Leaning back into the Toyota, I snatch up the bouquet of roses before shutting the door with my hip and locking it with the remote. It’s only when I’m shoving the keys in my pocket that I realize I’ve left the phone in the car and, for a second, dither over unlocking the car and getting it out. Viewing it as a good, *valid* excuse not to linger, I decide against it and start to walk towards the graves, keeping my eyes on the ground the entire way.

Having, particularly in the early days, visited their simple gravestones so many times, I could find my way to them blindfolded. But that’s not why I keep my eyes downcast. No. The reason I look down is because I don’t want to see the expressions of loss and confusion on the pale faces of my fellow mourners. Nor do I want to inadvertently make eye contact for fear of inviting them over to share their tales of grief with me. Be it selfish of me or not, I’ve just always been of the opinion that my own is enough.

Gingerly making my way along the sodden path, I catch sight of a pair of sadly neglected gravestones to my left and come to a reluctant stop. Although I never spoke to him, for the first six months after my parents were buried here I used to see Mr Nakagawa -- not that I knew his name then -- bowed over the grave of his wife every time I visited. He was more consistent than the weather or even my own grief, which fluctuated between complete misery and -- illogical -- anger at my parents for not having fought for their lives harder. Same coat and hat, same unmoving position for hours on end, same calm expression. The only thing that ever changed was the flower he’d bring her, and even then it was always yellow. Whatever was in season -- freesias, daffodils, roses, sunflowers -- so long as they were bright and cheerful.

I never thought anything of the old man until the day came when he wasn’t there and in his place was a fresh gravestone along that of his wife’s. Then, without ever having learnt a single thing about him other than his utter devotion to his dead wife, I missed him. He was nobody to me, in fact, he sometimes -- like when it was pouring with rain and he didn’t go home or protect himself by using an umbrella -- pissed me off to the point where I wanted to stride over and shake some sense into him, but…

But -- and I didn’t even realize this until it was too late and he was gone -- he’d always smiled at me and, in his own simple way, made me feel as though I perhaps wasn’t as invisible as I was beginning to think I was.

The Nakagawas not having any children -- and I found this out by raising the courage to talk to Mr Nakagawa’s elderly sister as she was paying her respects one day -- no one tends to their graves, meaning they’re just being allowed to fall into ruin. Saddened by this, I carefully remove two roses from my bouquet and, murmuring a prayer under my breath, place one on each grave. That done, I bow and continue on my way.

Wanting -- the good publicity -- to give the impression of ‘no hard feelings’ and ‘I stick by my employees no matter what’, Takatori, the bastard, paid for a shrine to be erected over my parents’ graves the very week of their burial. It was, as shrines go, mighty impressive too. Black polished marble, gold lettering, brass incense holders… Hell, if not for the slimy sentiments behind it I may even have been appreciative of its classic, classy design. 

As it was however, I hated it. Absolutely fucking despised it. The mere sight of the expensive -- paid for in blood money -- shrine made both my stomach and fists clench in disgust and repressed hatred. To me, it made my parents out to be as much Takatori’s pawns in death as they had been in life. It also made me -- the only son with the lust for revenge bubbling in his veins -- feel redundant, as though I wasn’t even capable of honoring their memory or of doing the right thing by them. And, on top of everything else, it hurt. 

Because of this, and because I didn’t want to be beholden to Takatori for anything, as soon as I could manage it I paid for the shrine to be removed and for two simple gravestones to be erected in its place. While the actual removal of the marble monstrosity cost more than the stones and it took a while for me to accept the basic simplicity of the markers, it’s hard to put into words how much the change meant to me. Even if it did smack of being a prime example of being too little, too late, I’d finally achieved something for my parents on my own and, yes, it was something I was proud of.

Nearing the gravestones, I lift my gaze and what I see very nearly causes the bottom to fall out of my world.

No!

Oh dear God… No. Please…

Feeling as though my entire body has gone numb, I stumble towards the graves and, reaching them, slump heavily to my knees down on the wet lawn, my heart beating a dull tattoo in my chest. 

THIEF!

WHORE!

Dry swallowing, I reach out a trembling hand and close it around the jagged and crumbling corner of my father’s gravestone.

Desecrated. 

Someone’s desecrated my parents’ headstones. Harsh words scrawled in red paint taunt my vision while the damage done to the stone is enough to make my stomach clench in revolt.

Who?

Who would do such a thing? And…

And why?

Why now? If I’m their target then why not just attack me directly instead of doing… this… this despicable act?

I…

“Ah… My dear, sweet, predictable Abyssinian,” a familiar male voice comments smoothly from behind me as a gloved hand closes around my shoulder. “I knew that you would come.”

Schuldig!

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck!

He’s here… Just like that. He got under my guard without even having to try… Meaning…

Meaning that the others are already captured? Or… Or dead?

Fuck! I doubt I could have made it easier for the prick if I’d actually tried.

Jerking my head around, I stare at the German telepath as a mounting sense of dread and mortification settles over me. Dressed as the stereotypical, somberly dressed mourner in his expensive charcoal suit and black woolen trench coat, the bastard looks like a picture of poise and serenity. Even his hair, his pride and joy, is pulled back in a sedate ponytail. Behind him, standing a respectful distance back, are two blank faced and identical looking minions. Despite never having seen them before I immediately write them off as being little more than hired bulk and, reluctantly, focus my attention on Schuldig.

“Fuck you, freak,” I hiss as Schuldig’s fingers clamp down harder on my shoulder, effectively keeping me down and in place. “Let go of…”

“Now, now,” Schuldig interrupts, smiling benignly as he crouches down next to me in order to speak directly in my ear, “given that I have it on good authority that you’ve until recently been having… carnal relations… with a member of my old *freaky* Alma Mater, do you not think that is being a little harsh?”

“Keep Chloé out of this, asshole,” I snarl, glancing around me for a method of escape and conveniently glossing over the true, hideous truth -- he *knows*? -- hidden within Schuldig’s response. “He… He’s just… Forget it.” Although I know I could shake Schuldig off, I don’t particularly want to run the risk of his goons taking *his* frustrations out on anyone else in the cemetery and, caught between a rock and a hard place, don’t know how best to proceed. 

“Hmm… And there I was thinking after our last encounter that you may have lost some of your bite,” Schuldig replies, making ‘tsking’ sounds of disappointment under his breath as, without so much as hint of warning, he jams the barrel of a gun forcefully into my side. “Honestly, Abyssinian, you were just so… accommodating… last time.”

“Get fucked.” While hardly erudite, I can’t for the life of me think of anything better to say and, my nerves taut, glance around anxiously. Make a run for it? Fight? To each their own and to hell with the innocent mourners?

“That’s not your, shall we say, *defensive* way of telling me that you don’t remember, is it?” Schuldig queries, effecting a hurt expression as he increases the pressure on the gun between my ribs. “Tsk. Looks like I’ll just have to remind you then. Oh well. I can’t say that it’ll exactly be a hardship having to see all that creamy white flesh of yours again…”

You… *what*?

“N-no.” The word, a plea of denial, slips out of my mouth before I can stop it.

“The warehouse, my darling feline,” Schuldig all but purrs, removing his hand from my shoulder to stroke my hair, safe in the knowledge that he’s effectively frozen me to the spot. “Is it all coming back to you now?

“You… You…” My skin crawling, I shake my head numbly and stare down at the sodden grass. Although I still can’t remember what happened in the warehouse, something instinctive tells me that what Schuldig’s saying is the truth, that he was there, and…

And…

I think I’m going to be sick.

“Ah! You *do* remember!” Schuldig states gleefully, leaving my hair alone in favor of stroking my cheek. “I must say I feel better about my… prowess… now. For a dreadful second there I thought you’d honestly forgotten.”

This is not happening. This *didn’t* happen.

“Get… Your… Hands… Off… Me…” I grind out, pulling my head away from Schuldig’s treacherous touch and willing myself to *move*, to get a fucking grip, to do *something*.

“Make me,” Schuldig smiles, putting on a little show of licking his lips in apparent anticipation.

“He doesn’t have to,” a new voice from above Schuldig’s head states coldly in, I think, French accented Japanese. “Leave him, Schuldig. He is of no concern of yours.”

Abruptly pulling back, Schuldig shoves me to the side and jumps gracefully to his feet. “You!” he spits, his expression one of rage as he spins to face… my savior? “What the fuck are you doing here?”

“Stopping you… As usual,” the voice replies calmly in the face of the German’s temper tantrum. “It is, after all, what I live for.”

Wanting to see whoever the newcomer is, I stumble inelegantly to my feet. Barely upright, and feeling as though I’ve had the wind knocked out of me, I make to take a step forward when, placing my foot on a piece of gravestone, both my ankle and the world shifts beneath me and, with even less elegance than I used to clamber to my feet, I start to freefall towards the ground. Although I see it coming, there’s nothing I can do to deflect the gravestone that’s rushing up to meet my head and…

Just like that.

Pain. Stars. 

Blackness.

~*~*~*~*~*~

“You know, I thought cats were meant to always land on their feet,” a vaguely contemptuous French accented voice comments in English from somewhere above my head as, slowly, consciousness begins to lap at me.

“Whoever it was that made the mistake of telling you that you’re funny… lied, okay?” another male voice replies, this time I think, although I could be wrong, in *Scottish* accented English.

And… Yeah…

Hello, Alice. Would you be so kind as to point me in the direction of the White Rabbit? What with one thing and another, I appear to have lost him.

Just… Where am I?

“Screw you.”

“Not funny. Not polite. Hey, remind me, Kee… Why exactly *do* we keep you around?”

“Speaking of *not* funny…”

“Bite me.”

“In your wildest dreams, maybe.”

“Nightmares, more like.”

“Fuck off, Sunbeam.”

“I would if only I could. But, hey… All of us having our own crosses to bear, I’m here to protect you should the kitty-cat turn feral *if* or when he wakes.”

Kitty-cat. Great. This honestly just keeps getting better and fucking better. I don’t know what sort of mess I’m in and my captors think they’re in the midst of some sort of stand-up comedy routine. Wonderful. 

“Thanks but, going on his performance at the cemetery, I’m quietly confident none of us have anything to worry about. I mean… Christ. You saw him. He’s off with the fairies.”

“I wouldn’t underestimate him if I were you. From everything we’ve read, off with the fairies or not, he’s still a force to be reckoned with.”

Oooh. Warm fuzzies. I have an admirer. Lucky me.

“Mmm… Look at him. He looks *real* scary.”

“Have you been told recently that you’re a prick, Keegan? If not, allow me to rectify that for you… You’re a prick, okay? I mean, let’s face it, as if he wasn’t having a bad enough day as it was without forcefully introducing his temple to that tombstone the way he did.”

“As I mentioned before, so much for cats always landing on their feet, huh?”

Tuning the inane babble of my two unknown… *guards*… out, I concentrate on getting my bearings as best I can without opening my eyes and letting it be known that I’ve regained consciousness. Although my head and left ankle are throbbing badly enough to tell me I’ve been in the wars, I’m not restrained and appear to be lying on what, by the feel of it, I assume to be a sofa. I’m also, despite having lost my coat, shoes and socks, still dressed and this fact, even more so than having control of my limbs, is enough to stave off the sense of panic I can feel threatening to swamp me.

Being dressed is *good*. It is also, to my way of thinking, promising.

That said, on the negative side however are the small facts of life that I don’t know where I am or who it is that’s holding me captive. Oh. And, while I’m at it, let’s not forget the whole parents’-graves-have-been-desecrated-Schuldig’s-not-only-still-one-step-ahead-but-he-was-also-part-of-the-party-at-Wapping thing either.

No. On second thoughts, let’s forget all about that. *That* can wait until *this* is over.

Where am I? Why am I here?

More to the freakin’ point, why do these two goons keep staring at me? Talk about suffering an extreme case of Aquarium -- ‘look at me all you want ‘cos there’s not a damn thing I can do about it’ -- Syndrome. Without even having to see for myself, I can just *sense* their eyes on me, staring at me as though I’m some sort of particularly rare or exotic specimen or something. 

“Clumsy or not, Kee, you’ve still gotta admit that he’s kinda hot.”

“Mmm… Pity he’s a little less than discerning in his tastes.”

“Give it a break, Keegan. We’ve heard it all before, okay? What’s more, knowing your opinions as well as we know the fucking multiplication tables, we don’t need to hear them again.”

“Fine. We’ll just make small talk then, shall we? My. What an *interesting* bracelet he’s wearing. I’ve never seen one quite like it before.”

“Smart ass.”

Fingers lightly brushing across my bracelet -- uh-uh, not fucking likely! -- causing me to lurch into life, I jerk my wrist away and open my eyes. Struggling into a half sitting position, I look around anxiously, seeking out a means of escape. The room, to my considerable surprise, appears to be a living room and, ignoring the waves of dizziness that are washing over me courtesy, I suspect, of a gravestone induced concussion, I try to gauge the distance from the sofa to the door. It not appearing to be that far, I file the information away for future use and continue looking around, this time for something to double as a weapon. 

Lamp… The glass protecting the framed Monet print above the television… A heavy crystal vase containing an artistic arrangement of kangaroo paws and bamboo…

Okay. Fine. The room giving every indication of being nothing more than a normal, ‘lived in’ living room, I’m either being held by the world’s stupidest minions or, interestingly, I’m not a captive at all. Concussion and dodgy ankle aside, I’m confident that, when the time comes, I can escape with no great difficulty and, an edge being taken off my panic, settle, straight backed and defensive, against the back of the sofa.

“Don’t touch me,” I hiss icily, glaring in turn at the two men standing in front of me. “Just… Keep your fucking hands to yourselves and don’t touch me!”

“So much for our lord and master’s great theory that keeping his wet clothes on would reassure him that we’re not after his virtue,” the man with the French accent -- who I *think*, going on their, for the want of a better word, conversation, is called Keegan -- drawls, lazily retracting his hand and, with a casual shrug, standing back from the sofa. “Chill, kitty-cat. No matter how hot you are there’s just some peoples’ seconds I wouldn’t touch with a ten foot barge pole.”

Narrowing my eyes, I glare at Keegan and, without bothering to grant him the benefit of doubt, decide that I don’t like him. I’m not *afraid* of him, and I don’t view him as a threat, but, I don’t know, there’s just something about him that puts my hackles up. Smart mouth, smart attitude, and a demeanor that screams of self-importance and arrogance - that just seems to be Keegan all over. Not overly tall but perfectly toned and sexy in a hard, ‘don’t I know it’ sort of way, he just strikes me as someone who’s a firm believer in his own publicity. Yes, he’s -- I suppose -- attractive with his large, brilliantly blue eyes, lightly tanned skin and artfully disheveled blue/black hair, but, well, at the same time there’s just something… untouchable… about him, as though he’s put *himself* on a pedestal and believes in his own mind that he’s above everyone else.

Whatever.

Be it courtesy of either instinct or simply an unwarranted character assassination on my part, I don’t like him. And that’s just all there is to it.

“Who are you and why am I here?” I demand, dismissing Keegan and directing my question at the other man who’s shifted down to lurk at the end of the sofa. Unlike Keegan, I feel no immediate, gut reaction towards the second man and look at him expectantly. With his half-smirk, cigarette and tight fitting black top, he almost reminds me of Yohji in a way. Taller than Keegan and with shoulder length hair streaked just about every variation of brown and blond that there is -- making him look like Rum Tum Tugger out of Andrew Lloyd Weber’s take on Cats -- he strikes me as someone who’s inherently good natured and, not wanting to rely on having to find Keegan’s better side, I hope like mad that I’m reading him correctly. 

“I’m Finlay,” the man replies, his smirk giving way to a grin as he tilts his head in the direction of his friend, “and that attractive waste of space over there is Keegan. As for why you’re here? Well, in case it’s slipped you attention, we actually saved you from that bastard Schuldig and, ‘cos we couldn’t in all conscience leave you in the state we found you in, we brought you back here to patch you up. That’s all. You’re perfectly safe, you know. We’re not going to hurt you.”

“You say I’m perfectly safe and that you’re not going to hurt me,” I echo huffily, glancing down at my ankle and noting with surprise that it’s been expertly wrapped, “yet, not knowing you, I’m effectively at your mercy. Forgive me for appearing ungrateful but, please, I would like some answers.”

“To get answers you have to ask questions,” Keegan mutters snidely, rolling his eyes at Finlay and folding his arms across his chest. “Or has that blow to the head perhaps effected you more than we’d originally thought?”

“For God’s sake, Kee,” Finlay sighs, shooting Keegan an annoyed look while simultaneously flashing an embarrassed, apologetic smile at me. “Give him a freakin’ break, yeah? What happened isn’t his fault and, if you could put your damn *issues* aside for a second, I don’t think it would kill you to be a little nicer to him. Let’s face it, it’s not as though he *asked* to be brought here.”

“Perhaps you’d like me to give him a back massage or something, would that be better?” Keegan murmurs sourly, glaring at Finlay. “Honestly. You’re as bad as Faith. Just because he knows Rosebud it’s like his well being is suddenly our number one priority. And, well, sue me for not caring less.”

Faith? Who’s Faith and why do I feel as though I’ve heard his name just recently? And… Rosebud? Huh? 

“I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again,” Finlay mutters, shrugging, “you’re an asshole, Keegan. You’re my friend and I love you, but you’re still an asshole.” Pausing, he flicks the bird at Keegan in response to the blue-eyed death glare being shot in his direction and, with a laugh, turns his attention back to me. “Just ignore Keegan, Aya, he’s all noise and can, believe it or not, actually be quite pleasant when you get to know him.”

Aya… Not kitty-cat or any other rib tickling feline themed take on my codename… Meaning, they know my name. Curiouser and curiouser. 

“If it’s all the same to you I have no intention of getting to know him,” I reply flatly, gingerly touching my temple and wincing as my fingers come in contact with a large, tender feeling bump. “Now, seeing as I have to be specific, who exactly are you and, again, what am I doing here?”

“Fair enough questions, I suppose,” Finlay smiles, taking a seat on the arm of the sofa. “Basically, to cut a long story short, we’re friends of Chloé’s…

“Speak for yourself,” Keegan interjects with a derisive snort, cutting Finlay off and pulling a truly unbecoming, petulant looking face. “I’m not his friend and I take offence at…”

“As I was saying,” Finlay continues calmly, ignoring Keegan’s outburst and smiling at me, “we’re friends of Chloé’s and you’re perfectly safe. No one’s going to hurt you and, once we’re assured that you’re okay, we’ll return you to your car.” 

“Chloé’s never said anything about knowing either of you,” I reply dubiously, frowning at Finlay. “So why should I believe you when you say that you’re his friend? As far as I know you could be working for Schuldig and be part of whatever his great game play is.”

“And on that charming thought,” Finlay murmurs, standing up and starting to walk towards the door, “I think I’ll go and get Faith. If anyone can convince you of our credentials then he can.”

Searching my concussion addled brain for where I’ve heard Faith’s name mentioned before, I watch Finlay leave the room before tentatively pressing my foot down on the floor in order to test the damage to my ankle. Unable to get it flat for the pain, I give a huff of annoyance and, not wanting to give Keegan the time of day, continue staring in the direction of the door. My ankle, without wanting to put a too fine a point on it or anything, is fucked and I don’t think my head is that much better. And what this means, basically, is that, unless I want to fall spectacularly on my face, I’m stuck here. 

“I can’t believe I’m about to do this,” Keegan sighs. “But perhaps this will help convince you…”

“What? Got some happy snaps of past times to show me, have you?” I mutter, my lack of interest for anything Keegan could show me coming through loud and clear in my voice. “If so, save ‘em for someone who cares. I’ll just sit here and wait for the mysterious Faith, if it’s all the same to you.”

“Oh, but I think this is something you need to see,” Keegan replies smoothly, walking over to stand directly in front of me, blocking my line of sight to the door. “C’mon, Aya. If we didn’t know Rosebud would I be able to get all the… *exact*… details so perfectly right?”

Realizing that Keegan isn’t going to be a good boy and leave me alone, I reluctantly glance up at him and…

Fuck. Me.

Shaking my head numbly, I open my mouth in anticipation of saying something… *anything*… but nothing comes out.

He looks… God knows how… like Chloé. *Exactly* like Chloé in fact. Same pale hair, skin, and eyes. Same bone structure, height, and size. Same… everything. If not for the clothes -- torn jeans and a skin tight black mesh t-shirt, two items of clothing Chloé wouldn’t be seen dead in -- it would honestly be like Chloé was standing in front of me.

And…

And it’s just *wrong*.

“Cat got your tongue?” Keegan laughs, spinning around and striking a pose before, in a gesture that completely ruins the illusion even more so than the clothes do, stretching his arms out and presenting the underside of his wrists to me. “See what I was saying about getting all the pitiful details perfect?” he adds maliciously, all but pushing the thin bands of scarring in my face. “Think about it, *Abyssinian*, would I know about these if I didn’t know him?”

Unable to think of a solitary thing to say to Keegan that would adequately convey to him just how little I happen to think of him, I don’t give him the satisfaction of replying and remain silent. Just… fuck him. I won’t pander to his sick whims and, if he doesn’t like it, then that’s just his tough luck.

“You’re no fun,” Keegan/Chloé mutters, taking a step back and shaking his head. “Oh well. How about this then? Not only do we know Rosebud but we also know both your likes…” Trailing off, the image of Chloé ‘slides’ off Keegan only to be immediately replaced by Yohji’s. Once again, the likeness is uncanny. The hair, the pose… Even the clothes don’t detract from the illusion this time, which, it has to be said, is nothing short of creepy. If I hadn’t seen the ‘change’ take place in front of my eyes I suspect I’d even accept this… doppelganger… as the real thing.

And this, again, is just wrong. *Scary* wrong, even.

“Showoff,” I whisper, scowling at the illusion of my lover and, despite the fact it makes the room spin around me, shaking my head. “So you’ve accessed my file and can mimic my friends, I’m impressed. Seriously. I am. Give me your number and the next time I throw a party I’ll be sure to hire you for the entertainment.”

“Not just your friends,” Keegan/Yohji replies lightly, giving a small bow, “but also… others from your past as well… As I had started to say, we know both your likes… *and* your… dislikes.” Standing up, ‘Yohji’ flashes a thin lipped, spiteful smile at me before disappearing and being replaced with…

No!

Recoiling from the horrific image in front of me, I huddle in shock against the back of the sofa and only just control the urge to whimper. Kimura… He’s changed to Kimura! I…

I know it’s an illusion, that he’s not *really* here, but…

But, panic trampling all over fact, it doesn’t matter. All I can see is Kimura.

“What the *fuck*?” Finlay exclaims, bounding into the room and promptly slapping… Kimura… across the face. “Jesus, Keegan. What fucking possessed you to do something so freakin’ stupid?”

“I would have used the word ‘cruel’ myself,” a new voice states flatly as another man enters the room. “Finlay, get my… *brother*… out of my sight before I do something to him that I live to regret.”

“Over react much?” Keegan -- who’s returned to being just Keegan -- scowls, rubbing his cheek. “I mean… Fuck. I was just having a bit of fun, you know, proving a point. It’s not like I fucking exposed myself to him or anything.”

“Oh, you’ve exposed yourself, all right. Just not in a way your excuse for a brain can compute,” the newcomer comments quietly as he comes over and takes a seat next to me on the sofa. “Now, Finlay, *please*. Get him out of here.”

Although I want to turn to face the man, to acknowledge him, I can’t bring myself to move, the horror of seeing a living, breathing Kimura standing in front of me still too real for me to be able to function in any sort of normal manner.

“You heard your brother, *move*!” Finlay orders, grabbing a pouting Keegan by the hand and pulling him towards the door. “Honestly, Keegan, even by your normal standards that disgusting little performance really takes the cake.”

“You’re all the same,” Keegan snaps, shaking off Finlay’s hand and flouncing out the door. “No. Fun.”

“Don’t worry, Faith,” Finlay mutters, glancing over his shoulder and shrugging. “I’ll go after him and sort him out.”

“Don’t hold back on my account,” Faith murmurs, shifting closer and causing me to hunch up tighter against the arm of the sofa. “I’m sorry, Finlay, but right now I’m so pissed at Keegan that I don’t care where he gets to.”

“Leave him to me,” Finlay replies, looking at me and shaking his head sadly. “Sorry, Aya. If I’d known he was going to pull that stunt I never would have left you alone with him.”

“I’ll look after Aya,” Faith states, draping his arm around my shoulders and, to my dismay, hugging me. “You go after my idiot brother.”

“Mmm… You got it,” Finlay responds, giving me one last sympathetic look before continuing out the door and disappearing.

“Aya?” Faith, who’s French accent is less pronounced than his brother’s, murmurs softly, pulling me against him. “About Keegan, I… I can only apologize for his abhorrent behavior and hope that it hasn’t effected you too badly. The last thing I ever wanted was to make your already bad day worse and, again, I apologize. If there’s anything I can do to make it up to you then, please, don’t hesitate to ask.”

“You can start by not touching me,” I retort breathlessly, finally regaining the ability to speak and, squirming, trying to break free of Faith’s embrace. “I… I’m not one of your… staff members… and I don’t…”

“Shit!” Faith exclaims, letting me go and jumping to his feet. “Again, I’m sorry, Aya,” he continues, walking around the coffee-table and sitting on the edge of the armchair opposite the sofa. “I didn’t mean anything by… Christ! I’m just sorry, okay? I’m sorry for how everything’s panned out and I’m sorry that you’re forming such a negative opinion of us.”

Relieved at having the sofa once again to myself, I sit up a little straighter and stare coolly across at Faith, blatantly checking him out and getting his number. Slimmer than Yohji but about his height, Faith, it has to be said, is unlike anyone I’ve ever seen before. A vision from head to toe in purple and black, he’s the first man I’ve ever seen who quite literally takes my breath away. Violet eyes, a shade darker than mine, stare back at me openly from a flawless, pale face framed by black hair layered over dark purple. As though co-ordinating his entire ‘look’ around his hair, he’s wearing black leather trousers and a fitted purple silk shirt, both of which make me think of Chloé and the way he dresses. 

Unlike Keegan, I sense no malice or ill intent from Faith and, comfortable enough in his presence to break the staring contest by blinking, settle back against the sofa with a sigh that comes out sounding suspiciously like one of relief. “Care to enlighten me as to just what the hell is going on here?” I query bluntly. “And, while I’m at it, what gives with Keegan, huh? If I’ve done something to wrong him then, sorry, I can’t remember it.”

“The only person who’s ever wronged him is me,” Faith replies, smiling wanly as he makes himself comfortable in the armchair, “and that’s far too long a story to get into now. What I can tell you however is that what you were the unfortunate witness to was a prime demonstration of Keegan’s particular… gift. He can, as you’ve no doubt already gathered, assume the identity or, more to the point, appearance of others. For the want of a better term, I suppose you can say that he has the gift of, amongst other things, illusion.”

“Some gift,” I mutter drily. “I bet he’s a true wonder at getting in where he shouldn’t be.”

“You have no idea,” Faith responds, looking away from me and staring at the blank screen of the television. “We… all… have our gifts though. Finlay’s is speed and strength, not that you’d know it to look at him, while Jin, who you haven’t met yet, has the ability to control and manipulate both electricity and fire.”

“And yours?” I murmur, things slowly sliding into place in my head. “What’s your… gift?”

“I’m a psionic,” Faith replies quietly, still talking to the television. “My gifts are all in the… mind.”

“So you’re a telepath, like Schuldig,” I reply, a touch of instinctive defensiveness entering my voice. “Come on, if it’s the case you may as well say it. Whether you’ve… ‘read’… it from me or not, I’m not so closed minded as to think *all* telepaths are psychotic assholes.”

“You have no idea how relieved I am to hear that,” Faith murmurs blithely, glancing across at me and meeting my gaze for a second or two before lowering his head and looking down at his hands. “But, yes, you’re… in a way… right. Like Schuldig and, to a far lesser extent, Chloé, I am a telepath. I am also, however, a telekinetic, meaning I have a command of most, if not all, of the mind’s powers.”

“Rosenkrus?” I query matter-of-factly, leaning forward and watching Faith intently. If I’m correct, I think I’ve just remembered where I’ve heard Faith’s name before -- Chloé! -- and, for no real reason other than it’ll help put my mind at rest, need to know if I’m right or not.

“Yes,” Faith whispers, clenching his hands together, the paleness of them a stark contrast to the black leather of his pants. “We were all, along with Chloé and Free and Schuldig and Nagi and hundreds of others, at Rosenkrus together.” Pausing, he looks across at me and frowns. “How… How did you guess?”

“You can’t just pluck the answer from my mind?” I murmur, suddenly curious as to why Faith’s being, in a sense, gentle with me when, clearly, anything he wants to know he could just rip straight out of my head.

“I could, yes,” Faith confirms with a dismissive shrug. “But I won’t. Unlike a lot of psionics I can switch my powers on and off at will and I only use them when I absolutely have to. Personally I far prefer the… normal… way of holding conversations and asking questions to ascertain information to trawling, uninvited, through someone’s head. Trust me, Aya. I would never take advantage of you and I want you to know that, really, you are perfectly safe with me.”

Digesting Faith’s response and deciding to take his word for it, I nod. “In that case, I made the connection when it finally came to me where I’d heard your name mentioned before,” I explain quietly. “Also… Well, Rosenkrus being a pretty hot topic where I’m from at the moment, it kind of struck me as somewhat obvious.”

“Chloé?” Faith queries, leaning forward and clenching his fingers into the leather of his pants

“Yes.”

“He… He’s spoken about me?” Faith murmurs, his expression one of cautious hope. “About… us?”

‘Us’ as in himself and Faith or as in the broader sense of being a part of Faith’s ‘team’? Unsure of how best to proceed, I decide to err on the side of brutal honesty and shrug expansively. “Not exactly,” I reply. “In fact, to be perfectly frank with you I’d never heard either your name mentioned or that Chloé had been at Rosenkrus until something like forty-eight hours ago. And, well, even then I’d hardly say he was exactly what you’d call forthcoming about any of it.”

His face falling, Faith nods and sits back in the armchair. “I can’t say that surprises me,” he responds softly, once again directing his response to the television set. “Saddens, yes, but doesn’t surprise. Chloé, after all, has a new life now and it’s only right that he doesn’t live it weighed down by the past…” Trailing off, Faith sighs and flicks his gaze over to meet mine. “Aya, would you mind if I were to ask you a question?”

“It depends on the question,” I reply truthfully, “but seeing as I won’t know whether I’ll answer it or not until I hear it, please feel free to give it a go.”

“It’s not a… work… related question, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Faith replies, his eyes locked on mine. “It’s more… personal. I… Okay. I’ll get to the point. I’d like to hear from you how Chloé’s going. He still writes but, and I don’t know if you’ve been on the receiving end of this side of him yet or not, he can be very adept at holding things back and I’m afraid that he’s not giving me the full picture.”

“Adept at holding things back?” I echo with a snort, fascinated by Faith’s interest in Chloé and wishing I knew the full story. That they were lovers, I suspect is a given, but the rest of it? God alone knows. “Don’t underestimate the issue there or anything. If not for Schuldig raising his ugly head I’m sure he could have gone to his grave without ever mentioning Rosenkrus to me. But, whatever… His past is his business, not mine. In answer to your question though, until this current mess came along, I can in all honesty tell you that he’s been fine. Well, to the best of my knowledge anyway.”

“That’s good,” Faith smiles, a look of relief crossing his face. “Although there is little I could do about it if it wasn’t the case, I’m glad that things have been going fine for him. After everything he’s been through he deserves happiness and, again, I’m glad that he’s found it in Krypton Brand.”

“I don’t suppose you’re going to elaborate on any of this, are you?” I query hopefully. “You keep dropping tidbits, granted, but really I’m as much in the dark as I ever was.”

“You’re right, I’m not going to elaborate. In time… perhaps… but not today. Today is merely a mistake,” Faith replies, glancing across to the door as a tall Chinese man walks into the room carrying a tray containing a teapot and two cups. On his shoulder perches a tiny black and white kitten and, oddly enough, I feel no degree of surprise at this admittedly incongruous sight whatsoever. Nor do I blink an eyelid at either the man’s multiple piercings -- nose, eyebrow, multiple holes in each ear -- or his bald head and calm, patently disinterested expression. 

“Ah, Aya, this is Jin,” Faith states as the man carries the tray across to the coffee-table. “Jin, meet Aya. Hopefully he is looking a little more with it than when you last saw him.”

Giving me a cursory glance, Jin nods. “A little more with it, yes,” he replies, his voice soft enough to be barely above that of a whisper. “I have prepared tea,” he continues redundantly, bending down to place the tray on the table. As he lowers himself, the kitten, who looks half asleep and as though it’s had far better days, loses its grip on Jin’s shirt and, after a moment of panicked scrabbling, starts to fall off. Being far too young and tiny to survive such a fall unscathed, I lurch off the sofa and, with piercing pain shooting up my leg from my ankle, manage to catch the kitten just before it tumbles onto the coffee table.

Swearing under my breath at both the pain and my stupidity for reacting without thinking, I hand the stunned looking kitten back to Jin and collapse back onto the sofa. “There,” I mutter, reaching down and closing both my hands around my throbbing ankle, “that’s my good deed for the day.”

“Thank you,” Jin murmurs, a degree of surprise evident in his voice as he cups the kitten in one hand and uses the other to gently stroke its head, causing it to purr in contentment. “That was both quick thinking and kind of you.”

“And where exactly did this one come from?” Faith queries, saving me from having to come up with a response and, after standing up, starting to pour the tea. “Come on, you may as well tell me.”

“When I was coming back from the store a group of neighborhood children where contemplating using it as baseball,” Jin responds, placing the still purring kitten back on his shoulder. “I could hardly just leave it.”

“Of course you couldn’t,” Faith replies, a smile tugging on the corners of his lips as he hands me a cup of tea. “Now, what do you propose to do with it next?”

“I was thinking…” Falling silent, Jin looks directly at Faith for a second or three before -- having finished ‘communicating’ with him? -- starting to move back towards the door. “If we are not needed, we were thinking of leaving now to start the… clean up,” he continues cryptically as Faith nods his apparent agreement.

“That’s a good idea,” Faith states, picking up his own cup of tea and resettling himself in the armchair. “I also think you’re right in wanting to set off now. Aya and I will join you shortly.”

“Good,” Jin replies curtly, pausing in the doorway. “Goodbye, Aya. I trust that your day improves considerably and again thank you for catching the kitten.”

“Mmm… Bye,” I murmur, watching Jin leave the room before returning my attention to Faith. “Okay… You going to tell me what that was all about?”

“Jin is our resident animal lover,” Faith explains, smiling as he takes a sip of his tea. “As you may have already guessed, he’s forever rescuing strays and, in turn, I’m forever having to… ah… *convince*… people to take them in. Jin himself would like nothing more than to keep them all but, well, there’s only so many free roaming animals around the place that I can handle and we have an understanding that if he rescues them I’ll find homes for them. Thankfully, it’s an understanding that works well.”

“Oh…” It slowly dawning on me that things are going nowhere fast, I scowl down at my tea and decide that the time has come to be a little more forthright about things. “The four of you, you are a team, yes?” I ask plainly, taking a tentative sip of my tea and savoring the familiar flavor on my tongue.

“Yes, we are a team,” Faith confirms, easily accepting my relatively abrupt change in topic and peering at me over the top of his cup. “The four of us are the core team but there are… others… that we can call on should we need assistance.”

“You are like Weiss or Krypton Brand then?” I murmur, cupping my mug in both hands and letting the warmth of the tea seep into me. “You take orders from… from someone higher up?”

“We take orders from no one and, to place ourselves in your world, are a team more along the lines of Crashers than either Weiss or Krypton Brand,” Faith replies, taking another mouthful of tea before setting his cup down on the arm of the armchair.

“Non lethal?” I query, my curiosity growing by the second. Possibly more powerful than Schwarz and I’ve never heard of them before? What gives with that, huh? I thought I knew of all the teams operating in my particular… realm of expertise.

“If it can be at all helped we prefer not to kill,” Faith responds with a grim smile. “Before you ask, our goals are largely selfish in that we mainly concentrate our efforts on rescuing others from the grips of Rosenkrus, hence why it is unlikely that you would ever have heard of us. We do, however, also help out here and there with information gathering and the occasional spot of protection. It all depends, essentially, on who it is that’s doing the asking.”

“You have a name?” 

“Rosary. Our team is called Rosary.”

“Okay… And what exactly is Rosary doing in Tokyo?” To hell with small talk, I want answers and, preferably, I would like them now.

“We are in Tokyo for the same reason that you are.”

“And that would be…?”

Unconsciously toying with an eartail, Faith looks across at me and sighs. “Aya, I like you and I want to be able to answer your questions, but…”

“But?” I interrupt, not liking the look of where this might be heading. “But *what*?”

“But there’s no point having this conversation, that’s what,” Faith replies, standing up and walking across to take a seat next to me. “As I just said, I like you, Aya, and because you’re now involved, both through Chloé and what’s currently transpiring, with us, I really do want to tell you everything. But, again, there’s just no point.”

“What do you mean there’s no point?” I mutter, putting my cup down on the coffee table and swiveling to face Faith. “You brought me here, I’ve been introduced to everyone and… And that’s it? I’m sorry, but I don’t get it. Why can’t you tell me everything?”

“Because ours is a story that I only care to tell once,” Faith responds with another sigh, “that’s why. If I tell you Rosary’s story now I’ll only have to repeat it again whenever the time becomes right and, forgive me, Aya, I just can’t do it. While it is not something I regret, your being here is a mistake and it is a mistake that I’ll shortly have to rectify.”

“You’re going to erase my memory?” I query suspiciously, inching surreptitiously further away from Faith and once again wondering whether my ankle would hold me if I decided to bolt for it. “That… Hell! That’s just lovely, that is. In fact, if that’s the case it begs the question as to why you bothered swooping in at the cemetery in the first place.”

“While we had merely been trailing you to ensure that you joined up with the others safely, we couldn’t just stand by and watch Schuldig play with you,” Faith replies simply, respecting my need for space and making no move to reach for me. “What happened next could not, however, have been foreseen and once you were out cold we could hardly have just left you there. Besides, if you must know, we were worried about you and thought it would be best if we checked your head out instead of simply leaving you to it.”

“And now, that done and your consciences absolved, you’re going to blithely wipe my memory of our encounter and, well, that’ll just be that,” I complain, an irrational sense of disappointment settling over me. Although he’s now effectively betraying me, there’s something about Faith that I like and, yeah, I *had* been hoping to perhaps see him again.

“Not exactly,” Faith murmurs, shaking his head. “While no, you won’t remember any of this, I want you to believe me now when I say that if you ever need me, I’ll be there for you.”

“And I’m supposed to believe that?” I snort, folding my arms across my chest in a defensive gesture. “I mean, let’s face it, you could tell me any damn thing you like and, what, ten minutes from now I won’t even know that you exist?”

“If you need me, you’ll remember me,” Faith replies softly, his eyes sad as he looks at me. “You may not believe it, and I know how… unpleasant… this is for you, but what I’m telling you is the truth. Soon you will recall nothing of this encounter and, sorry, for the greater goal it has to be this way, but… should you ever need me… I give you my word that I’ll be there.”

“Whatever,” I mutter, unable to take Faith’s miserable expression and staring down at my knees. “I think it’s all bullshit but, whatever… It’s not like there’s anything I can do about any of it.”

“Just so you know,” Faith whispers, leaning forward and, without so much as a word of warning, placing his hands gently on my temples, cupping my face, “when you wake up you’ll be back at the cemetery.” Kissing my forehead, he then murmurs ‘sorry’ and, for the second time in one day, my world abruptly dissolves into complete darkness. 

~*~*~*~*~*~

Waking to the distinctly out of place sensation of water dripping on my face, I bite back a groan and slowly open my eyes. Half expecting to find Yohji -- deriving ill advised amusement out of shooting me with a water-pistol -- standing above me, I’m somewhat nonplussed to discover that I’m lying, sprawled over a patch of wet grass and that the water coming down on me is, in fact, a light drizzle of rain.

Okay… So I’m outdoors, I’ve been unconscious, and… and I have a bouquet of white roses clutched in my hand?

A-ha! Got it. Well, got some of it at any rate. I’m at the cemetery and… somehow… I managed to fall over and hit my head on something?

“Drunk at this time of day,” an elderly female voice states disapprovingly from somewhere behind me as I slowly drag myself to my knees. “Honestly. It’s just disgusting.”

“Now, now, Ai,” another, equally as elderly sounding female replies mildly, “grief effects everyone in different ways. Perhaps this is just his way of coping with his loss.”

“Well I still think it’s disgusting,” Ai retorts huffily, “and if he were my grandson I wouldn’t let him out of the house.”

“Some might say that it’s a good job he’s not your grandson then,” Ai’s companion chuckles as, gingerly turning around, I watch the two old women continue on their way. Neither of them, despite having seen fit to pass comment on my bedraggled state, seem to care one way or the other about my condition and, perhaps solely because I’m concussed and feeling out of sorts, I actually find this quite disturbing. I mean… Hello. Whether I look drunk or not, I’m still crawling around and looking dazed in a cemetery and, surely, that has to be a cause of concern for *someone*. 

Hell. Speaking for myself, *I’m* concerned. My head feels as though it’s housing a sound check for an avant-garde industrial band and, while I’m at it, my left ankle is throbbing like a bitch too. Not only that, but…

Fuck.

According to my watch I’ve been in Tokyo for over three hours, which means, if I’m doing my math correctly, I’ve been out cold for something ridiculous like two hours. Two fucking hours and no one bothered to check if I was all right? For Christ’s sake. Talk about taking looking the other way to an all time low. For all anyone knew -- or, I suspect, cared -- I could have been lying here dying… or dead.

Disgusted both at my fellow man for their deplorable lack of care and at myself for, I *assume*, being inept enough to fall on my ass and hit my head on a tombstone, I crawl over to my parents’ graves and -- better late than never -- place the roses between them. My vision blurring from both the rain falling off my bangs into my eyes and the numb feeling in my head, I peer closely at the gravestones and, forgetting about my own predicament for a second, admire how clean and cared for they look. In fact, they almost look as though they’ve been professionally cleaned and, running my finger lightly across the etching on my mother’s marker, wonder idly if the cemetery had them tidied up as part of a restoration kick or something.

A twinge of pain working its way up my left leg letting me know in uncertain terms that my ankle is taking objection to being knelt on, I tentatively change position so that I’m resting my butt on the heel of right foot while stretching my other leg out. My head taking almost as much objection to moving as my ankle did to having pressure on it, nausea rises in my throat and, not particularly wanting to make a bad situation even worse by throwing up on my parents’ gravestones, I clamp my lips shut and fight to keep it down.

Not quite sure that I’m up to crawling back to the car yet, I breathe deeply once the nausea has subsided and, using both palms flat on the grass to brace myself with, slowly look around the cemetery. Spotting a small boy wearing a Harry Potter cape and carrying a broomstick in one hand and a tiny black and white kitten in the other, I watch him as he runs excitedly along the path, his face a picture of glee. Reaching a middle-aged man who’d been walking towards him, he drops the broomstick and uses both hands to present the kitten to the man, the smile on his face broadening to the point of almost being blinding.

“Look, grandfather!” he exclaims, literally bouncing up and down on the spot. “Look what mother and I found curled in the grass behind father’s grave! Isn’t she beautiful? Mother said that she’s a sign from father and that I can keep her. Isn’t that just great?”

“That really is great, Kyou,” the boy’s grandfather replies, his own face breaking out in a smile as he reaches down to stroke the kitten’s head. “Your father did so love cats and, like your mother, I do believe she is indeed a sign from him.”

Touched by what I’m witnessing but feeling as though I’m intruding somehow, I glance away and sigh. While knowing that I can hardly continue lurking and feeling sorry for myself in the cemetery is all well and good, knowing what I can actually do to rectify it is something else entirely. Even if I do make it to the car I’m in no fit state to drive and if Ken hasn’t made contact yet then, really, I don’t even have anyone I can call for help.

But… Inability to drive and having no one to call aside, I can’t sit here all day and, if nothing else, if I make it to the car I’ll at least be out of the rain. Which, going on how saturated I feel, is definitely a positive all in itself. Besides, who knows, perhaps Ken *has* sent a message and things aren’t actually as bad as I currently think they are. So, yeah… I don’t really have any other choice. I’ve got to make a move and somehow get my ass back to the car. 

And…

And if I have to crawl then, well, so be it. 

My mind made up, I’m working myself up to making an attempt to stand when I sense a presence behind me. Looking up, I find a very familiar face smiling down at me and, my body going limp in relief, slump back down onto the grass.

“My God! Look at you, Abyssinian,” Singapura comments, shaking her head and smiling. “You look like a drowned rat.”

“And to think I’d been going to say you were a sight for sore eyes,” I reply, peering up at Singapura and, with effort, gesturing at the man standing with his back to me behind her. “Friend of yours?” 

“And yours,” Sing responds, tapping the man on the shoulder and causing him to turn around. Smirking, the man -- who I’d last seen wearing coveralls and tending the gardens at Souzou -- gives a small bow and winks at me. “Abyssinian, meet Bengal.”

“Bengal?” I repeat dubiously, staring at Yukio in disbelief. Not content with taking Japan over with his Dragon’s Tears’ franchise he’s now moonlighting as a Kritiker agent? God… Am I officially the last to know *everything*?

“Mmm… Bengal,” Yukio replies with obvious pride, taking his coat off and draping it over my shoulders. “You don’t think I was gonna tolerate just *any* of those pansy-ass cat breeds as my code now, do you?”

“As it happens, we’d ran out of, and I quote, pansy-ass cat breeds to use anyway,” Singapura murmurs, a look of displeasure crossing her face as, the heels of her knee-high boots sinking in the grass, she walks over to help Yukio get me to my feet. “But, wanting to get you out of here, story time can wait until later. Come on, Abyssinian, let’s get you back to the others before Siberian paces a hole in the carpet and Balinese runs out of cigarettes.”

“You know where they are?” I query, clinging to Yukio as my head comes to terms with being upright. “Are they okay? I… I thought, seeing as we hadn’t heard from you, that you had to be dead and…”

“As you can see, I’m very much alive” Sing interrupts, glancing in the direction of the car park and narrowing her eyes at whatever she sees there. “I apologize if you were worried about me but, as I’m sure you can appreciate, I’ve been keeping a low profile. As for Siberian and Balinese? They’re fine. Currently worried sick about you, and Siberian is champing at the bit to do something, but otherwise fine.”

“I’m glad,” I sigh, following Singapura’s gaze and watching an attractive dark haired man wearing a purple coat stare back at me for a second before climbing into a late model BMW and driving off. “Ah… How’d you know where to find me?”

“Traced your phone through its sim card,” Yukio replies, tightening his hold around my shoulders and effectively taking on most of my weight as I limp slowly along beside him. “Man, Abyssinian, I never took you to be such a klutz!”

“Jet lag,” I mutter flatly, not really believing it as an excuse but feeling as though I’ve got to offer Yukio *something* by way of explanation. “Jet lag coupled with wet grass and, voila… Instant, embarrassing stupidity.”

“Assuming it was just that,” Sing murmurs softly, closing her hand around my arm. “Don’t take this the wrong way, Abyssinian, but just to be on the safe side I’m taking you back with me while Bengal checks out both your hire car and luggage. I’m not saying anything untoward has happened here, but, well, I’d rather just get everything checked to make sure.”

Surprised that I hadn’t even thought along those lines before, I don’t reply and, suddenly longing for the reassuring company of Yohji and Ken, force myself to move a little faster.

If I didn’t just knock myself out, then…

Then what really happened and why can’t I remember it?

=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=


	4. Chapter 4

~ Yohji ~

“That was Singapura,” Ken states, bounding into the living room and flopping down next to me on the sofa. “She’s got Aya and they’re both on their way,” he continues, throwing his cell down on the coffee table and flashing me a relieved grin. “About fucking time, eh?”

“Just a bit,” I mutter, relaxing back on the sofa as the tension and fear of the last few hours leaves me in a rush. “Did Singapura say anything about what the fuck is going on though? Is Aya okay?”

“She says he’s concussed and got a bung ankle,” Ken replies, his expression of relief giving way to one of fondness. “Oh, and he’s also apparently well on his way to complete crabbiness too.”

“A crabby Aya, huh?” I sigh, leaning forward and snatching both my smokes and lighter from the coffee table. “Great. There’s something to look forward to then.”

“Given how… *ill*… I was feeling before Sing called,” Ken responds, shrugging and eyeing my smokes off with clear disapproval, “Aya can be as narky as he damn well pleases and I’ll still be pleased to see him. That said, not wanting to risk pissing him off any further, I think the time has come for you to start smoking outdoors again. I’m sorry, Yohji, but think about it… Do you *really* want to be responsible for making Aya’s already dodgy mood even worse?”

“Wimp,” I retort, standing up and stretching languidly. “What with this sudden change of heart, a person could be forgiven for thinking you were afraid of Aya or something,” I add teasingly, strolling over to the glass sliding door that leads out into the garden and gliding it open. “But, fine… If I’m no longer allowed the honor… nay, privilege… of smoking indoors then, despite the increased risk of catching pneumonia, not a problem. I’d be delighted to return to the great outdoors.”

“Man, you are so full of shit sometimes,” Ken laughs, swiveling around on the sofa so that he can watch me. “For your information, do you think I would have magnanimously allowed you to smoke in here in the first place if I was afraid of Aya? I mean, come on! Off his game or not, he’ll still know you’ve been smoking inside the second he walks through the door and, while it’s his tough shit if it pushes his buttons, I just don’t think it would be in anyone’s best interests if we did anything to, you know, further antagonize him at the moment.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I drawl, lighting my smoke and stepping out onto the covered patio. “I still say you’re a wimp, but, look… Happy now? I’m outside. I’m also freezing my ass off but, hey, don’t let that bother you.”

“It’s not,” Ken grins. “If you want to eat away at your lungs and life expectancy with nicotine then, well, what’s a bit of wintery weather here or there in the grand scheme of things anyway?”

“A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do,” I retort, casually leaning against the doorframe and putting on a show of blowing smoke rings. “Now… Enough of this frivolity. What else did Sing have to say about Aya. He’s tetchy, concussed and limping, yeah, but did she happen to mention *why*?”

“I got the impression from the way she was speaking that Aya was sitting next to her giving her the evil eye and, not wanting to run the risk of bursting into flames, she had to be careful with what she was saying,” Ken replies, standing up and walking over to join me in the doorway. “What she *seemed* to be implying though was, and it’s so odd that I’m thinking I *have* to have heard her wrong, that Aya fell over in the cemetery while visiting his parents’ graves and… get this… banged his head on a tombstone.”

“Go Aya,” I mutter, trying hard not to laugh. While it’s not particularly funny and, like Ken, I’ve been worried sick about him for the past three hours, there’s just something, I don’t know, incredibly -- in a blackest of black humor sort of way -- amusing about him tripping over and braining himself on a gravestone.

“Tell me about it,” Ken retorts, his eyes twinkling as, it all becoming too much for him, he starts to laugh. “I almost wish I’d been there to see him go down.”

“I’ll kill you if you ever tell him this,” I snicker, following Ken’s lead and giving in to the urge to laugh, “but me too. *Particularly* if where he fell was muddy. Can you imagine it?”

“Mmm… About as well as I can imagine the shit we’ll be in if we don’t control ourselves before he gets here,” Ken mutters, hugging himself in an attempt to get his laughter under control. “You know something, Yohji,” he continues once he’s calmed down sufficiently to stand fully upright again, “this… Laughing like this… It feels pretty good, yeah?”

“Very good,” I agree, wiping away tears of laughter with the back of my hand as I walk across to stub my cigarette out in the ashtray on top of the patio’s wrought iron outdoor setting. “In fact, I think it’s fairly safe to say it’s the most alive I’ve felt all day.”

“Tell me about it,” Ken replies, glancing at his watch. “Now, according to Sing they were twenty minutes away when she called which, by my reckoning, gives us just enough time to air out the house a little and spray the delicate aroma of air freshener around before they get here. So, come on, chop-chop. We’d better get a move on.”

“I tell you what,” I murmur, lighting another smoke and smiling hopefully, “why don’t you get a head start on that while I have another nerve calming cigarette before coming in and helping you?”

“What did your last slave die of?” Ken mutters facetiously, walking over and giving me a poke in the side with his finger before turning straight back around and meandering into the living room. “Exhaustion?”

“Old age, actually,” I smirk, saluting Ken with my smoke. “I’ll have you know I take exceptional care of my slaves…”

“Smart ass,” Ken retorts, glancing over his shoulder and poking his tongue out before, with a quaint little skip in his step, disappearing through the door that leads into the rest of the house.

Alone, and feeling no compulsion to speed my smoke up whatsoever, I sit down at the outdoor setting and gaze out across the garden. Like the whole compound, the garden is an interesting mix of two cultures and I still can’t quite get my head around the idea of a traditional Japanese garden being made predominately out of American natives. I’m also, while I’m at it, having difficulty… appreciating… the itty-bitty and insignificant goldfish swimming around in the so-called Koi pond. The damn things are so small and timid that spotting them amongst the water lilies is akin to hunting down Wally in those frustrating ‘Where’s Wally?’ books or searching for the proverbial needle in a haystack. The first time I was out here I had to stare into the pond for twelve minutes -- and, yes, I timed myself -- before one swam lazily into view.

But, whatever… In the grand scheme of things, a pond full of wannabe-but-never-gonna-be Koi are the very least of my problems. Besides, other than the fish and plant life being all wrong and the garden having been left to its own devices for a little too long, it’s still quite peaceful out here and, in its own, unique way, I quite like it. I also -- again, not that it matters a damn -- like the house and think Singapura did exceptionally well finding it for our base. 

Like the garden, the house, which until recently was the residence and office for the American Diplomat to Japan, is an interesting clash of East meets West. While the exterior of the house is built in a very traditional style -- and looks far, far older than it actually is -- the inside is one hundred percent designed around the American imperative need for comfort. Plush carpets, central heating, brick interior walls, televisions in every bedroom, Coke *and* Pepsi -- no coin needed, just push a button and, just like that and much to Ken’s continued delight, instant soft drink -- can dispensing machines in the hall near the office, large, extravagantly appointed rooms… If not for the fact the bedrooms are all missing a Bible in the top drawer of a bedside table it would be just like staying in a top of the range motel. 

For those of us -- hello, Aya -- who don’t care greatly for creature comforts, there’s also a practical side to the house as well. State-of-the-art surveillance equipment that’s on par, if not better, than what we have in London, a garage large enough to hold a fleet of cars, its own dedicated and un-hackable phone line, a helicopter landing pad hidden behind a bamboo fence in the garden… And, blah, blah, blah, the list goes on. Sing didn’t answer me when I asked whether it had its own satellite orbiting the planet but, well, it wouldn’t exactly surprise me if it did. Without wanting to sound ironic or anything, it’s like Tokyo’s very own equivalent of Fort Knox and, really, we couldn’t have asked for a better place to have as a base. 

Sure, we may not yet know what we’re doing, but, hey, who cares? We’ve got a kick-ass base if nothing else.

Aya’s odd and incredibly worrying disappearing act today aside, close to a day has passed since I arrived in Tokyo and, really, nothing much of note has happened during that time at all. Well, not directly to either Weiss or Krypton Brand and not that I care to think about or be reminded of anyway. Ken thinks I’m in denial, that it’s perfectly okay if I want to lash out at something or, I suspect, start screaming like a banshee, but…

But…

I can’t.

I just… can’t.

If I cry… or confront what it means to me… then…

Then it’ll be *real* and not wanting that, not wanting that for a *second*, I simply don’t care to think about it. It happened, lacking the ability to turn back time, I can’t undo it, and… Yeah. 

Acknowledge. Ignore. Move On.

I also, in keeping with my head in the sand routine, don’t want Aya to know anything about it. Not just now and not while he’s injured anyway. I could be making a mistake but, I don’t know, I just don’t think dumping it on him would achieve anything. He’d try and comfort me, sure, and he’d probably put into words all the thoughts I’m busily refusing to let form, but, really, that’d be all. Aya can’t do anything about it any more than I can and, ultimately, I think he’s got more than enough on his plate already without having to add worrying about me to it. Besides, the lingering pain for those left behind aside, what’s done is done. Whether there was a chance I could have done something once, I can’t do anything about it now and that’s just all there is to it.

Making a mental note to tell Ken to keep his big mouth shut, that not wanting to tell Aya is my -- mistake -- call to make and mine alone, I finish my smoke and, after grinding out the butt in the ashtray, light up another. Although I told Ken that I’d help him with his token gesture ‘make the house Aya friendly’ tidy up, I have faith in him doing a good enough job without my assistance and, swinging my legs up, prop my feet on the edge of the table. Comfortable, I take a long drag on my cigarette and, pushing all thoughts relating to the subject out of my mind, stare into the garden.

Aya is on his way!

Nothing else is going right, and it appears for all the world as though Omi has simply disappeared into the ether, but… thank God… at least Aya is okay. When we couldn’t rouse him after texting his phone with our location I honestly thought that it was going to be all over before it had even really started. Given how much the bastards seem to know about us, it even made sense to me that they’d focus their attack directly on Aya as taking him out of the equation would effectively weaken our entire defense in one easy step. He’s only one person, yeah, but losing Aya would be like losing…

Actually, like the other… abhorrent… turn of events, it just doesn’t bear thinking about.

There being so little to derive joy from at the moment -- which is why Ken and I lapsed into such childish merriment at the thought of Aya so uncharacteristically falling on his ass -- the last thing any of us need to do is fall prey to thinking hypothetically and it’s with this in mind that I quickly finish my smoke before standing up and returning inside. Ken having lived up to his threat of going spray-happy with the air freshener, the whole house smells of freesias and I barely make it through the living room before the overpowering smell has me sneezing.

“Bless you,” Ken comments, poking his head out of the kitchen door and pointing the can of air freshener at me threateningly. “Now, given that you’ve managed to do nothing whatsoever to help, stop complaining.”

“Love you too,” I mutter between sneezes. “Enough is enough though. I mean, I don’t know what’s worse, the cigarette smoke or this, this artificial eau de flower shop that you appear to be trying to create. Now, I know you miss the shop, but come on.”

“Instead of standing there enjoying the sound of your own voice,” Ken retorts, grinning as he shoots a quick spray of air freshener at me, “why don’t you drag your butt into the bedroom and make the bed, huh?” Pausing, he shrugs expansively and smirks. “Unless, of course, you’re holding a little experiment to see just *how* crabby Aya’s mood is capable of getting.”

“Um… Perhaps you may be on to something there,” I murmur, glancing over my shoulder in the direction of the bedroom and sighing unenthusiastically. “I just don’t get it though, you know? Why waste your time making a bed when all you’re going to do is get back in it again?”

“Hey, you’re preaching to the converted here,” Ken retorts, putting the lid on the air freshener and placing it on the kitchen bench. “But, well, you know Aya… I swear he’d rather sleep on the floor than get into an unmade bed. And… Could you do that to him in his current state? Concussed, crippled, and in desperate need of a freshly made bed to…”

“Enough already,” I groan, cutting Ken off and holding my hands up in mock surrender. “While I’m confident I could live with Aya’s displeasure, I sure as fuck can’t put up with the sob story you’re subjecting me to and, anything to shut you up, you can consider the bed made. Hell, I’ll even change the damn sheets if it’d make you happy.”

“Over the moon,” Ken smirks, cocking his head in the direction of the front door and snickering. “But, oh dear, it appears that you’re too late and that they’re here already. Tsk, Yohji, letting Aya down like this… How can you live with yourself?”

“A hell of a lot easier than I can live with you and your smart mouth, that’s for sure,” I retort, lightly thumping Ken on the arm as, hearing the telltale sound of a car door slamming, I start to walk towards the front door. “Now, are you coming to meet and greet or what?”

“Admit it, Yohji, you’d be lost without me,” Ken states cheerfully, slinging his arm around my shoulders and giving me a clumsy hug.

“We’re all entitled to our delusions,” I mutter, draping my arm loosely around Ken’s waist and, because it’s true and I do owe Ken a lot, hugging him back. Despite it flying in the face of both Aya’s and Free’s careful planning, Ken picked me up at Narita and we’ve been together ever since. He was there when… I found out… and he was there, disguising his own doubt with pep talks and PS2-themed diversions, when it looked like Aya had disappeared. Without Ken having, despite his own fears about Omi and increasing anxiousness at the fact that we haven’t made any inroads into his abduction yet, taken me under his wing I shudder to think at what point I’d be at now. 

“Smart ass,” Ken smiles, pulling away from me in order to wrench open the front door. “Now, shut up and let’s go do the concerned team mate routine for Aya.” 

“It’s a routine now is it, huh?” I reply facetiously, following Ken through the door. “I mean, that’s just charming that is. One second you’re giving me grief over offending Aya’s moral sensibilities with an unmade bed, and the next you’re effectively telling me that you’re going to go cry crocodile tears all over him. Some friend you are…”

“Mmm… The best,” Ken grins, bounding across the path to where Singapura is climbing out of her silver Mercedes.

Shaking my head, I move closer to the car as Singapura, with an expression of great sufferance on her face, opens the passenger door and offers her arm to Aya. Blatantly ignoring it, Aya, after shrugging a thick gray coat that’s clearly not his off his shoulders, climbs slowly out of the car and, looking slightly dazed and confused, glances around him. His gaze falling on Ken, his already ‘I’m not very happy, leave me the hell alone’ expression sours even further as Ken starts to clap.

“How does it feel to be this month’s recipient of the ‘Two Left Feet’ award?” he states, winking at me over his shoulder. “Way to go, Aya! I didn’t even think you had it in you.”

“Go fuck yourself, Hidaka,” Aya mutters tetchily, holding onto the car and, once again, this time with the addition of an impatient wave, dismissing Singapura’s offer of a shoulder to brace himself on.

Deciding the time has come to step in, I walk across to Aya and, after giving Ken a gentle -- warning -- slap on the back of the head, place my arm around Aya’s waist and carefully pull him away from the car. “You do of course realize that if you dismiss me too that you’re only going to look stubborn and petty?” I murmur, wincing at the sight of the nasty looking bump on his temple as I give him a quick kiss on the cheek.

“That sentiment I just had to share with Ken?” Aya replies flatly, limping closer to me as Sing shuts the car door before, with a roll of her eyes, heading inside. “Don’t make the mistake of thinking it can’t apply to you too.” 

“And to think, until thirty seconds ago that is, that I’d actually been missing that small ray of sunshine you bring to my life,” I respond, smiling sweetly. “Honestly, Aya. It’s just so great to see your smiling face again.”

“Neither of you are the slightest bit funny, you know that, don’t you?” Aya complains, shooting me an annoyed look as I start to help him inside. “I… I’m cold, wet, and my head hurts… But, do I get sympathy? Hell no. All I get is attitude and lame ass attempts at humor from people who are supposed to be my friends.”

“We’re your friends and we love you,” Ken interjects matter-of-factly, holding the door open and gesturing us through it. “That said, while you were having your little nap in the cemetery or whatever it was you were doing, we just happened to be worried sick about you and, if you don’t like how we’re choosing to deal with it then, well, by all means feel free to go and book yourself into a motel somewhere.”

“Like I knocked myself out intentionally,” Aya replies sourly, shaking off my hold on him and, gravitating over to the wall, leaning his shoulder against it in order to remain upright. “But… But I’m sorry if you were worried about me, okay? I…”

“Of course you didn’t do it on purpose,” I interrupt, knowing better than to insist that he needs help and, walking towards the kitchen, leaving him to his wall. “And, if our attitude is too blasé or whatever for your liking then we apologize. It’s just…”

“It doesn’t matter what it is as the three of you are here now and it’s time to move on,” Sing states walking out of the kitchen and fixing Aya with a ‘don’t give me any shit’ look. “As for you, what are you still doing up? Bed’s that way,” she adds, pointing down the corridor.

“I’m not going anywhere until I’ve been fully updated,” Aya responds, peering balefully at Singapura from beneath his wet bangs. “Once I’m sitting I’ll be fine.”

“Crap you’ll be fine,” Singapura retorts, jabbing her finger a tad more forcefully in the direction of the bedrooms. “Now, and I’m only going to say this once so I wouldn’t interrupt if I were you, not only have Ken and Yohji got nothing to share, *I’ve* also got nothing to share… Sooo… Allow me to hereby declare this meeting closed.”

“But…” Refusing to go down without a fight, Aya narrows his eyes at Sing and sighs. “That’s not being very helpful, Singapura. Surely, given that I’ve been in transit and out of range, you must have some updates for me.”

“Nope. Nothing,” Sing responds, shrugging dismissively as she starts to head back to the kitchen. “Honestly, Aya, you may as well just give in and go to bed. For what it’s worth, after a cup of coffee and a couple of Yohji’s cigarettes, I’m outta here. People to go, places to see and all that.”

“Speaking of cigarettes,” Aya mutters, wrinkling his nose as, keeping close to the wall, he slowly begins to move down the corridor. “It smells like a cross between a really feral perfume factory and some down and out club in here.” Pausing, he looks at me and scowls. “If you’ve been smoking in here, it stops now.”

“Cold, wet, *and* narky to boot,” I murmur, giving him a small salute. “Now, without wanting to run the risk of getting my head bitten off, I think perhaps Sing’s right and that bed really *is* the best place for you at the moment.”

“Fine,” Aya sighs, shrugging in weary resignation and, by giving up so easily, effectively proving how off his game he’s really feeling. “Where’s my bedroom then?”

“*Our* bedroom,” I correct, echoing Singapura’s gestures and pointing down the corridor, “is the second door on the left.”

“Fine,” Aya repeats, keeping his opinion, if he even has one, on the fact that I took it upon myself to stake my claim on one bedroom for the pair of us to himself and, with a determined expression settling over his face, limping off. 

“I’ll…”

“Yohji will be in to check on you shortly,” Sing interrupts loudly from the kitchen, “so, you just go on.”

Surprised by Sing stepping in and cutting me off, I poke my head around the kitchen door and pointedly clear my throat. “What gives, huh? If it’s all the same to you, I’d really like to be with Aya.”

“I want to talk to the pair of you, that’s what gives,” Singapura replies, glancing up from the coffee-machine and gesturing for Ken, as he walks into the room, to shut the door. “Now, while teasing Aya about what happened is all well and good, and, for what it’s worth, I actually think you’re right and it *is* what he needs, there’s a few more sides to it all that you need to know.”

“I *am* right in thinking you mentioned something about him knocking himself out in the cemetery, aren’t I?” Ken queries, walking across the kitchen and perching himself on the edge of the table. “If so… Well, come on, that strikes me as being out of character for Aya all by itself.”

“On the surface though, that’s exactly what appears to have happened,” Sing responds, leaning her back against the bench and smiling wanly. “Not having any concrete evidence to the contrary, it looks as though, for whatever reason, Aya tripped over something in the cemetery and, because of the way he fell, hit his head on a tombstone, subsequently knocking himself unconscious.”

“But…” I prompt, sinking down in a chair and fixing Sing with what I hope translates as a ‘go on, hit me with it’ look. “You think there’s more to it than that?”

“I’m sure of it,” Singapura sighs, picking up a teaspoon and aimlessly rolling it between her fingers. “Ignoring the other… ah… anomalies… you just have to look at it logically to realize there’s something totally off about it all. Even if we can accept that Aya may have tripped on the wet grass or a stone or whatever and knocked himself out, do you honestly believe that no one would have gone to his aid? According to the time line I’ve worked out, he would have been lying there for close to two hours and, come on, doesn’t that sound off to you?”

“They might have thought he was drunk, I suppose,” Ken murmurs, frowning. “But, well, even that’s no excuse for just leaving him there.”

“Not to mention that his general appearance doesn’t exactly scream drunken bum,” Sing continues. “Aya’s attractive, well dressed and, as far as Mr and Mrs Public are concerned, totally harmless. Speaking for myself, if I saw someone like him lying unconscious somewhere I wouldn’t hesitate over trying to help him.”

“You’ve got a point,” I state softly, not entirely sure I want to be a part of this conversation as, already, I don’t like what it seems to be hinting at. “But… I don’t know… People *can* be incredibly adept at turning a blind eye to things that they don’t feel concerns them.”

“Granted,” Singapura agrees, “but there’s other… things… that don’t fit either.”

“Such as?” Ken asks, glancing at me worriedly. “Come on, Sing, spill.”

“Like how someone’s wrapped his left ankle,” Sing replies quietly. “Not only that but, although he’s wet, he’s not as saturated as he should be if he’d honestly been outside all that time. While I don’t know if it stretched as far as here or not, a total deluge fell over that part of Tokyo during the time we were tracing Aya’s sim and there’s no way he could have been out in it. Oh… And this may be nothing, but I swear I can smell the scent of gas on his coat. Not gas in a bad way or anything, more that smell wool retains for a couple of hours after it’s been dried near a gas heater.” Pausing, Sing shrugs and glances at me hopefully. “Do you know the smell I mean? I could be wrong, and God knows it doesn’t make any sense, but it’s almost as though someone took Aya somewhere, tended to him in the form of looking after his ankle and drying him off, before returning him to the cemetery…”

“Why the fuck would anyone want to do that?” Ken mutters, sitting up a little straighter and shaking his head. “I mean… Christ. That’s just too freakin’ odd for words. What about Aya though, does he remember anything about any of it?”

“Nothing,” Sing murmurs, her puzzled expression mirroring exactly how I feel. “He can remember everything up until walking along the path to his parents’ graves and then it’s just a blank. In a sense it’s as though he’s totally lost close to two hours of his life.”

“Just like in Wapping,” I whisper, meeting Ken’s wide-eyed gaze and grimacing. “God… I hope this isn’t going to become a common occurrence.”

“Me personally, I’m hoping Aya enjoyed his last expedition on his lonesome until all of this is finally over,” Ken states flatly. “I’m telling you now, and I couldn’t give a flying fuck what his opinions on the subject are, he ain’t going anywhere from now on without someone going with him and, seriously, that’s just all there freakin’ is to it.”

“You took the words right out of my mouth,” I murmur, nodding. “Now, Sing… *Please* tell me you’ve got some theories as to just what the fuck is going on here…”

“Not really, unfortunately,” Sing replies, dropping the teaspoon back on the bench and returning her attention to the coffee machine. “Perhaps, and even if this is the case it’s still on the odd side, a good Samaritan merely tendered to Aya before, for whatever reason, deciding they’d done enough and that simply returning him to where they found him was the way to go.”

“A token gesture good Samaritan?” Ken snorts, raising an eyebrow. “Not on your life. If Aya had been picked up by some do-gooder he’d either still be being plied with tea and sympathy or he’d be talking his way out of an emergency room somewhere. I mean, come off it… There’s just no way someone would bother patching him up only to dump him back in the cemetery.”

“If not a random good Samaritan, then who then?” I query softly. “And, whoever they were, why’d they just, as Ken said, dump him back in the cemetery. It just makes no sense.”

“And that’s just it,” Sing sighs, hunting through cupboards until she comes to the one containing the cups. “*None* of it makes any sense,” she continues, placing the mug next to the machine and pouring herself a cup of coffee. “We know, because of his injuries, that Aya somehow fell over and knocked himself out. Other than that though? Well, your guess is as good as mine.”

“This is just complete bullshit,” I mutter, shaking my head as Singapura holds her cup towards and tilts her head towards the coffee-machine. “Thanks, Sing, but having had enough of this crazy conversation I think I’ll go check on Aya now.”

“Good idea,” Singapura replies, taking a sip of her coffee and momentary closing her eyes in pleasure. “Aah… I so needed that. Now… Before you go, where are your cigarettes?”

“Outside on the patio,” I reply, standing up and moving over to the door. “Oh, and Sing? Please, help yourself.”

“I was planning to,” Sing retorts, walking up behind me and placing her hand on my shoulder. “Do me a favor, huh, Yohji? Even if it pisses him off, give Aya a once over, yeah? I don’t *think* he remembers anything that he’s hiding from us, but… Well, you know, I’d just feel a little better if someone were to look him over. Not wanting to take any risks, I offered to get a doctor but he wouldn’t hear of it.”

“Consider it done,” I reply, reaching up and giving Sing’s hand a quick squeeze before opening the door and stepping through it. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, my exercise in masochism is waiting for me in the bedroom.”

“Enjoy!” Ken sings out, hopping off the table and linking his arm through Singapura’s. “Come on, Sing, I’ll come passive smoke with you.”

“I’m honored,” Sing laughs, waving at me as she allows Ken to lead her out of the kitchen. “You know something? Although I kept telling myself that I didn’t, I really *have* missed you guys.”

“We’ve missed you too, Sing,” Ken replies, letting go of her arm only to tickle her in the ribs, causing her to squirm and giggle like a school girl. “You’re like an honorary member of Weiss to us.”

Choosing not to dwell on yet another example of Ken’s new habit of constantly referring to Weiss -- which, although I’d never say anything to him, to me seems as though he’s suddenly developed an over reliance and dependence on the past -- I meander down the corridor towards the wing containing the bedrooms. Reaching our room, I open the door without knocking and walk straight in. Although I’d expected him to be either in the shower or bed, I find Aya standing with his back to the door and ferreting intently through my suitcase on the top of the chest of drawers. 

Somewhat nonplussed by this all out assault on my case, I make my way across to Aya and lean casually over his shoulder. “Looking for something, I take it?” I query lightly, immediately scoring myself a ‘well, d’oh, what do *you* think, idiot?’ look and a huff of exasperation for my troubles.

“I’m looking for painkillers,” Aya mutters, giving up on his search and, with an ungainly hopping motion, turning around to lean his back against the chest of drawers. “Given that they’re like cigarettes to you in that you never leave home without them, where have you hidden them?”

“I haven’t hidden them *anywhere*,” I reply, shaking my head. “If you’d thought logically for a second you’d have realized that they’re in the bathroom. You know, where they *always* are.”

“You try thinking logically after you’ve hit your head on a tombstone,” Aya complains, somehow -- even through the pain in his head -- perfecting the art of both scowling and pouting simultaneously. “Not that anyone seems to care or anything, my head hurts, okay, and…”

“And you’re feeling sorry for yourself,” I interrupt, reaching out and gently stroking Aya’s cheek with my finger. “Yeah. I get it. Now… How about you go and sit on the bed and let Doctor Yohji take care of you, eh?”

Glancing at the bed as though he hadn’t even noticed it was there before, Aya makes yet another huffing sound -- this one, I think, indicating disgust -- and all but physically recoils at the sight of it. “It’s not made,” he comments, the affront he’s feeling at such an unheard of state of affairs coming through loud and clear in his voice. “You… I leave you to your own devices for a little over a day and you regress immediately back to your slobby, unbecoming ways? I’m…”

“Going to have an aneurysm if you don’t chill,” I finish for him, laughing. “Honestly, my love, it’s just an unmade bed, *not* some sort of sacrilege or threat to society as we know it. But, hey… If it makes you feel any better, I’d been just about to make it when you got here, *and* I promise to have it made before you have to get into it. Mmm? Does that meet with your approval?”

Snorting, Aya gives the bed another look of disgust before half-hopping and half-limping across to the brocade covered chair by the door to the en suite. Seating himself in it gingerly, he sighs heavily and shivers. “I’m sorry, Yohji,” he murmurs tiredly. “I know I’m acting like a petulant brat, but I just don’t seem to be able to help it. I’m embarrassed about what happened, my head is killing me, and now, just for the cherry on top of everything, I’m freezing.”

“First of all, there’s nothing to be embarrassed about,” I reply, crouching down in front of Aya and placing my hand on his knee. “What happened, *happened*, and there’s nothing we can do to change that. Second of all, you don’t have to apologize. This… scare… on top of the last few days is the last thing you needed and you’ve got every right to be feeling effected by it. What’s more, you’re in pain and probably jet lagged to boot, which, to me, is a sure fire recipe for misery. Now, you just sit there while I get you a couple of aspirin before, if you’d like, helping you shower.”

“I’d like that very much,” Aya whispers, closing his hand over mine. “Actually, I’d been going to ask if you’d mind… looking me over. I don’t *think* anything particularly untoward happened but… but at the same time I can’t remember any of what happened and…”

“And you’d like a second opinion,” I murmur, picking Aya’s hand up and planting a lingering kiss on the back of it. “Of course. You didn’t even have to ask.”

“I’m sure there’ll be nothing to see,” Aya replies quietly, watching me through bright, slightly feverish eyes as I place his hand back in his lap and stand up. “But… Ah… Thank you. It… It means a lot to me.”

“Mmm… First things first though,” I respond, starting to walk into the bathroom. “Let me just get the aspirin down you and then we’ll move into the shower.” Quickly filling a glass with water, I grab two aspirin from their bottle on the basin and return to the bedroom. Handing them both to Aya, who’s looking far more flushed than he did when he arrived ten minutes ago, I watch him swallow the pills before taking the glass back and placing it on the floor. “Okay then, you ready?” I query, crouching back down again and reaching for Aya’s right foot.

“When I said I’d appreciated it if you looked me over, I didn’t necessarily mean you had to undress me,” Aya comments, frowning at me as I unzip his boot and pull it off. “I’m not an invalid.”

“Hey, if you want to bend over and take your shoes off, what with how badly your head is hurting and everything, then be my guest,” I reply, resting my weight back on my heels and waiting to see what route -- stubborn or begrudging acceptance -- Aya decides to take. “I was just trying to help, that’s all.”

“Maybe you’re right,” Aya sighs, obligingly lifting his foot up as -- being big enough not to rub my victory in his face -- I lean forward to pull off his sock. 

“You should know by now that I’m always right,” I respond facetiously, moving on to Aya’s left foot and, as gently as possible, removing both his boot and sock. As Sing had mentioned, his ankle has been expertly wrapped and I stare at the white bandage as though it has absolutely no right being there. “Ah… What about this?” I murmur, forcing myself to trail my finger across the bandage. “Do you want to leave it on or should I take it off?”

“Given that I’m going to have to be standing, I say take it off and replace it after the shower,” Aya responds, his frown increasing as he glances at his ankle. “I… I just wish I knew who’d put it there,” he adds, slowly shaking his head.

“Oddly enough, that makes four of us,” I mutter, reaching for Aya’s left wrist and, as he blinks at me in momentary confusion, swiftly removing his watch and placing it on the bedside table. Standing up, I hold my hand out to Aya and, as he takes it, I notice for the first time that he’s wearing his charm bracelet on his left wrist. “Now… Do you want this off too?” I offer, helping Aya to his feet and, stretching my finger out, brushing it across the bracelet.

“No,” Aya states, abruptly jerking his wrist away before shaking it in order for the bracelet to fall into place from beneath his shirt cuff and, holding his hand out, presenting it to me to inspect. “I decided on the plane that I’m not taking it off until all of this over.” 

“Fair enough,” I reply, peering at the bracelet and, to my surprise, spotting new charms nestled amongst the crosses and ankhs. “Oh wow, where’d you find the time to add those?” I query, leaning closer for a better look and smiling broadly when I see what the charms actually are. “Hey, these are really cool. I didn’t get the clover thing straight away, but it’s Irish and meant to represent Michel, yeah?”

“It’s a shamrock,” Aya murmurs, pulling his hand back and staring down at the bracelet with an unreadable expression on his face. “And, yes, it’s for Michel. I didn’t add the charms though, Chloé did.”

“That was nice of him,” I respond, putting my arm around Aya’s shoulder and slowly guiding him into the bathroom. “In fact, I wish I’d thought of it myself… The old and the new. Past and present…”

“Don’t forget the future,” Aya whispers, allowing himself to be propped up against the glass wall of the shower so that I can reach into the cubicle in order to turn the taps on. “Past, present… and future.”

“Of course and future,” I respond firmly, quickly stripping my clothes off before helping Aya out of his. As it’s exposed to the cool air, his skin breaks out in goosebumps and, by the time he’s naked his teeth are chattering. “Hell, Aya, don’t tell me you’re getting a cold on top of everything else,” I mutter, manhandling him into the shower and, with one hand on his hip to keep him in position, increasing the temperature of the hot water.

“Just… jet lagged,” Aya murmurs, shivering even though the flow of water is so hot that I can only just bear it. “I’ll be fine after a sleep.”

“If you say so,” I mutter, not convinced but not wanting to push the issue either. I hope I’m wrong, but -- to my uneducated eye anyway -- he really looks as though he’s coming down with something. His listlessness may be a by product of his concussion, but the shivering and flushed skin? Well, they say cold and fever to me.

“I’ll be fine,” Aya repeats, reaching around me to grab the soap. “Here… I don’t wish to be pushy or anything, but I don’t really know how much longer I’ll be able to stand for.”

Taking the soap from him, I walk around Aya, all the time keeping a hold on his hip, and proceed to gently wash his shoulders and back. Unlike our last shower together, my gestures are perfunctory rather than sexual and I can’t help but be aware of how different things now are. I also can’t help but feel as though I’ve failed Aya, that somehow it’s my fault that this has happened to him. If I’d insisted on traveling with him… If I hadn’t told Ken breaking protocol again and picking Aya up at the airport would have been the equivalent of asking for trouble… If we’d reacted quicker when he didn’t respond to our text message… If, if, fucking if!

Shifting back around Aya, I start to wash his chest and arms as he yawns and watches me through heavy lidded eyes. Spotting a suspicious looking bruise on his right side, I squat down to get a better look at and brush my fingers across it. “Check this out,” I murmur, forming a circle around the bruise with my index finger and thumb. “Do you have any idea where you may have got a bruise like this from?”

“It looks like the size of a gun barrel,” Aya replies, his eyes widening and what little color he had left in him draining away as I glance up at him. “Just look at it. It… It has to be from a gun.”

“And you don’t…”

“How many times do you have to be told?” Aya interrupts agitatedly. “I don’t remember any of it, okay? Nothing! I remember stopping at Mr Nakagawa’s grave and then it’s just a blur. It… Oh God… It’s just like Wapping all over again.”

“No it’s not,” I reply soothingly, dropping the soap and, standing up, drawing Aya to me for a hug. “It’s not like Wapping at all and, well, even if it was, it doesn’t matter as you’re here now and you’re safe.”

Slumping against me, Aya wraps his arms around my back and rests his head on my shoulder. “I’m sorry, Yohji,” he sighs wearily. “You’re right. Nothing probably happened, I’m safe and… and it doesn’t matter anyway…” Trailing off, he glances up at me before closing his eyes and pressing even closer to me. “So caught up in myself, I haven’t even asked how you are or told you how pleased I am to see you again…”

“Oh, you don’t have to concern yourself about me, I’m just peachy,” I murmur, the lie slipping easily off my tongue in favor of not adding to Aya’s worries. “I’m even delighted to see you again, crabby mood and everything. Now… How about getting out of the shower and into bed? Apart from the bruise you appear fine to me and, well, I don’t really want you to collapse on me.”

That said, I don’t bother waiting for a response and, turning the shower off, all but lift Aya out of the cubicle. He allows this, just as he’s allowed everything, passively and doesn’t really rouse himself until I’ve finished drying him. Then he looks at me and frowns as though he’s only just realized something of utmost importance.

“Mmm?” I prompt, wondering if he’s just remembered something and stopping drying my hair so I don’t miss anything he’s got to say. “What’s the matter?”

“I don’t have anything to put on,” Aya states plainly, looking down at the towel around his waist with obvious dismay. “Yukio… or Bengal… or whatever his damn name is, has my luggage and…”

“And I’m sure I can find something of mine for you to put on,” I interject, suppressing a laugh at Aya’s perturbed expression. “While it may not be silk, or even pass as pajamas in the traditional sense that you’re used to, it’ll still cover you and that’s, really, all that matters, yeah?”

“Yeah… I suppose,” Aya agrees, sighing in resignation as, once again placing my arm around his shoulders, I guide him back out to the chair in the bedroom. He starts to shiver the second I remove my arm from around him and, because of this and because I know I have to hurry, I simply grab the first two items of suitable clothing I come to in my suitcase and rush back to him.

“While I *know* they’re not you,” I murmur, handing the top to Aya before crouching down and helping him into the track pants, “all you have to do is keep in mind that they’re only for one night and you’ll be fine.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me…” Aya mutters, unfolding the top and scowling at it in a way that’s almost enough to make me believe someone snuck an ‘I Love Britney Spears’ t-shirt in my luggage while I wasn’t looking. “Yohji… I…”

“It’s not *that* bad,” I retort, snatching the top -- so what if it’s black with very vibrant red and orange flames on the arms and the words ‘Hot Stuff’ emblazoned on the front? -- out of Aya’s hands and, as forcefully as I can manage without hurting him, pulling it over his head. “Besides, it’s either this or some of Ken’s… possibly unwashed, I might add… Adidas stuff.”

“My life sucks,” Aya sighs, batting my hands away and finishing pulling on the top, his face a picture of distaste. “Where’d you get this rag, anyway? More to the point, what possessed you to pack it?”

“Perhaps I was planning to surprise you with it,” I snicker, walking over to the bed and beginning to straighten it up. “You know, use it as subtle hint to get into your pants or something.”

“You wish,” Aya responds, hobbling over and, the unmade bed issue clearly no longer being of any great importance to him, seating himself on the edge of the mattress. “If you want a reaction to make it worth your while though, wear it in front of Chloé. I’m sure he’ll have conniptions.”

“Assuming you don’t take a liking to it and I get it back, I might just do that,” I reply, laughing at the disgusted look Aya shoots me and patting the mattress. “Here. Put your foot up on the bed and I’ll take this sodden bandage off.”

“Good idea, let’s change the subject,” Aya murmurs, swinging his leg up and wincing as I unwrap the bandage around his ankle. “I mean… As if I hadn’t had a crappy enough day without having to be forced to wear… *this*.”

“You’re whinging again,” I mutter, wagging my finger at him as I look at his ankle. Although swollen and slightly bruised, it doesn’t appear *too* bad and -- by my non-medical backed reckoning -- I don’t think, so long as he rests it for a day or two, it’ll cause him much more trouble.

“I’ll whinge if I want to whinge,” Aya replies, glancing dismissively at his ankle before grabbing the comforter and pulling it up to his waist. “With the exception of finally being here, my day has pretty much sucked big time, I’ve heard no good news and…”

“Ha! I’ve some good news for you that’ll cheer you up,” I exclaim, peeved at only just having remembered the email that came through this morning and giving myself a mock smack to the side of the head. “What’s more, it’s not just hearsay as I can even back it up.”

“Proof,” Aya murmurs, as a dim glimmer of hope appears in his eyes as he looks at me. “I like the sound of that.”

“I thought you would,” I grin, disappearing into the bathroom and hurriedly pulling my clothes back on. A quick glance in the mirror confirms that my hair is in total disarray but, having better things to do with my time than stuff around with the hairdryer, I settle for giving it a half hearted comb through with my fingers before returning to the bedroom and walking straight over to the door. “I suppose telling you not to go anywhere would be a tad on the redundant side,” I state teasingly, pausing in the doorway to glance at Aya.

“Very funny,” Aya mutters, fixing me with a dark look. “No. Really. You’re a laugh a minute.”

“Well, I like to think so,” I laugh, slipping out of the room before Aya decides to throw something at me and walking towards the office. Passing through the living room, I spot Ken and Singapura sitting at the outdoor setting on the patio and give a little wave by way of greeting. Jumping up, Ken gestures for me to stop and runs across to the sliding door.

“Hey, wait up,” he states, stepping into the living room as Singapura, after putting out her smoke, walks across to join him. “How’s Aya?”

“Tired, tetchy, and not exactly playing with a full deck,” I reply, my body telling me that I definitely have the time for a smoke while my mind tells me that I definitely don’t, that I have to get back to Aya. “Other than that, he’s just peachy.”

“What about telling us something we *don’t* already know?” Sing interjects, slipping past Ken and taking a seat on the sofa.

“Well, he’s got this bruise on his side that looks for all the world as though it was caused by a barrel of a gun being pressed there,” I respond, watching Ken as his eyes flash with clear agitation. “Oh, and while that’s bad, what’s worse is the fact I’m sure he’s got a fever and could be coming down with a cold.”

“You’re right,” Sing murmurs with a sigh. “The bruise is a worry all in itself but, really, the last thing we want right now is for Aya to get sick.”

“I’m sure he’ll be fine,” Ken mutters, stalking across the room and throwing himself down into an armchair. “You’ll see. In the morning he’ll be just fine.”

“And with any luck you’ll be right too,” I reply, starting to move towards the door that leads down to the office and conference room. “The laptop with the email on it, it’s in the office, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Ken confirms, sitting up a little straighter and looking at me with open curiosity written all over his face. “I’ve got it on charge, actually. Why do you want it?”

“So I can show Aya, of course,” I retort, rolling my eyes at Ken. “Why do you freakin’ think I want it, huh, so I can do a little Ebaying?”

“What email are you talking about?” Singapura queries, looking from Ken to me and back again, her expression one of slight consternation, as though she’s thinking we’re keeping something important from her. “And why does Aya have to see it?”

“It’s an email from Yuki that appears to be confirming that Free and Chloé are on their way,” Ken mutters, slumping back down in the armchair and giving me a closed, sour look that almost matches the looks Aya had been giving me for intensity. “Why Aya needs to see it though is…”

“Why Aya needs to see it,” I interrupt, wishing the Krypton Brand labeled chip on Ken’s shoulder would just hurry up and fall off already, “is because he needs cheering up and I happen to think that knowing the others are on their way might just happen to please him. You know, give him one less thing to worry about.”

“Aya gets on well with the other members of Krypton Brand then?” Sing murmurs, directing her question to me as opposed to Ken. “From what you’re saying it certainly sounds like it.”

“Some could say he gets on with them… *one* of them in particular… *too* well,” Ken retorts viperously, jumping in to get his point of view across before I’ve even had time to formulate a response in my head let alone open my mouth. “In fact, there are times when I find myself wondering just where his loyalties lie these days.”

“Having heard this garbage before, I’m outta here,” I mutter, returning Ken’s scowl with a fair percentage of interest added before shrugging and walking out of the room. I *know* Ken is worried to the point of distraction about Omi and I’m also fully aware of the fact that he’s pissed at Chloé for not having said anything about Schwarz until, in his mind, it was too late, but, seriously, he needs to pull himself together before his attitude starts to effect everybody. One thing’s for certain though, while I’ve more or less just been letting him bitch and complain to his heart’s content, there’s not a chance in hell that Aya will stand for it and he’s in for a rude awakening if he’s kidding himself that he will.

Entering the office, I find the laptop set up on the desk and, after pulling the charger out of the back of it, pick it up and carry it out of the room. The house being laid out in such a way that I *have* to walk back through the living room, I increase the speed of my steps and don’t so much as glance in Ken’s direction as I pass through. What I catch of what Singapura’s saying though -- “You’ve got no right to say…” -- leads me to believe that she’s giving Ken a lecture and I have to fight hard to suppress the smirk I can feel wanting to stretch across my lips. Go Sing!

Lifting the screen on the laptop as I walk, I discover that the computer’s still switched on and, scarcely paying attention to where I’m going, bring up Outlook. Highlighting the message I’m looking for, I stop short of opening it up and, balancing the computer on my left hand, walk into the bedroom. Aya, at first look, appears to be asleep but, just as I’m about to turn around and sneak back out of the room, he opens his eyes and blinks at me sleepily 

“I was beginning to think you’d forgotten about me,” Aya comments, yawning as he drags himself into a half-sitting position.

“Sorry, but I got sidelined by Sing and Ken,” I murmur, carefully setting the computer down on Aya’s lap. “I think you’ll find that this is still worth the wait though.”

Giving me an ‘I’ll believe it when I see it’ look, Aya taps his finger on the touch pad to open the message and, yawning again, peers expectantly at the computer. Although I’ve seen it before, I still watch, a small smile twitching on my lips, as the email slowly opens up and does its thing. First, a crudely drawn yet immediately recognizable map of Japan appears on the screen. Then, materializing in the top right hand corner, an owl that looks suspiciously like Hedwig from the Harry ‘license to print money’ Potter movies flies over the map. Clutched in the owl’s talons is a tarot card that it drops as it reaches Tokyo. The owl having delivered its ‘message, the image of the map then dissolves to be replaced by a close up of the tarot card, which, in this case, is the Star.

“And you’ve checked that this is legit?” Aya queries, smiling hopefully as he trails his finger across the image of the card. “It’s not fake?”

“Mmm-hmm… Ken traced it back through all the different servers and the like and confirms that it’s definitely from Yuki,” I grin, sitting down on the edge of the mattress and draping my arm around Aya’s shoulders. “So, what do you say, was it worth the wait?”

“Definitely worth the wait,” Aya replies, relaxing against me and looking the happiest -- or possibly the most *relieved* -- I’ve seen him since he’s arrived. “The Star… I don’t know whether you know this or not, but one of its main divinatory meanings when it’s placed like this is optimism. So, really, they’re not only telling us that they’re on their way, but they’re also telling us to have hope…”

“Yeah? Wow. I didn’t know that,” I respond, my already high opinion of the admittedly very clever email growing another notch. “Although it doesn’t exactly say, I suspect they’ll probably be here soon too.”

“Good,” Aya murmurs, stifling another yawn. “With any luck they’ll be here when I wake up and then we can get moving on looking for Omi.”

“Speaking of waking up,” I mutter, removing my arm from around Aya and snapping the laptop shut before picking it up and placing it on the floor under the bed. “I think the time has really come for you to get some sleep or you’re going to be in no fit state to do *anything*.”

“You’ll stay with me?” Aya queries softly, lying back down on the mattress and, shivering again, tugging the comforter up to his chin.

Although it’s only early evening and I’m not the slightest bit tired, I nod and walk around to the other side of the bed. “So long as I won’t annoy you by having the light on and reading, yeah, I’ll stay” I reply, grabbing my book from the bedside table and turning the lamp on before stretching out on the mattress and propping myself up against the pillows.

“Won’t annoy me,” Aya mumbles, closing his eyes and rolling onto his side so that he can press his back up against me. “G’night, Yohji. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Good night, my love,” I whisper, glancing down at him and biting back a sigh as, quite literally out of the blue, it hits me both just how much Aya means to me and how devastated I’d be if I lost him. 

And this, coupled with what’s already happened and what I’m trying my hardest not to think about, leaves me feeling helpless.

I’ve already failed to protect someone close to me once, so what’s to say I won’t fail Aya as well?

~*~*~*~*~*~

// I’m standing, frozen both in time and to the spot, a captive voyeur to a hell made reality. Although I can feel myself screaming, no sound is coming out of my mouth. I scream and I scream and…

Nothing.

Silence.

Can’t move. Can’t interact with hideous debauchery being played out in front of my eyes. Can’t…

Help… Protect… Do anything… 

Can’t… stop it…

Failure. Useless. Helpless. Redundant.

Waste. Of. Space.

“I loved and trusted you, yet… Yet you do nothing to help me? Why? What have I done? Yohji? We were happy together… and this is how you repay me?”

Stop it, stop it, stop it!

… Oh God, please… I love you and I didn’t mean for this to happen. Please, you’ve got to believe me. I’ll accept the blame but… please… it was never intentional. If I’d known I would have done things differently. I would have stayed… I would have. If I’d known… If I’d *thought*…

“It’s your fault, Yohji. This is happening to me because of you. I’m being torn apart because of you. My blood, even now as you stand by and watch my debasement, stains your hands.”

… No! Fight! You’ve got to fight them. I… I’m coming. You’ve just got to hold on and I’ll make things right. I will. I’ll make it up to you…

At first sight of the blade, the silence shatters and, finally, my scream pierces the air.

“Noooooo!” //

Waking with a gasp, I blink away the lingering remnants of my -- all too realistic -- nightmare and, panting, struggle to get my breathing under control. The room lit in a dull golden glow from the lamp on the bedside table, I stare at the ceiling and try to ground myself in the here and now.

Okay. Uh-huh… I’m lying, fully clothed, on the bed, the book I’d been reading a heavy weight on my chest. I’m also sweating and am so hot that I literally feel as though I’m melting.

Aya… Aya was looking feverish. Have I perhaps caught whatever it is he’s got?

Moving sluggishly, I drag myself into a sitting position and subsequently discover that while I may or may not have Aya’s fever, what I *do* in fact have is his share of the bedding thrown over me while he sleeps, sprawled on his stomach and looking anything but comfortable, under only the top sheet.

Sighing, I stumble to my feet and gently arrange the comforter back over Aya. Dead to the world, he sleeps through my remaking of the bed and, not wanting him to throw it off again, I make a point of carefully tucking the comforter around him. This done, I lean against the wall and watch him sleep as my nightmare-frazzled brain tries to come up with what I should do next.

Go to bed proper and pray I don’t have the dream again? Pop some pills before getting back in bed so as to *guarantee* a nightmare-free sleep? Grab a beer or three and set up camp on the patio with my smokes? Hunt down Ken and make him entertain me? Give up and pick a nice corner to sit and keen softly in?

None of the options exactly thrilling me, I’m tossing between the sleeping pills and the beer and cigarettes when the sound of car doors slamming out the front of the house effectively hand me a ‘Get Out Of Jail Free’ card on a platter. Not caring in the slightest if it’s only Singapura back from her meet -- as she’ll still count as a much needed diversion in my books -- I slip out of the room and meander slowly in the direction of the front door. Nearing the living room, Ken comes flying out of the door and, oblivious to the fact he only narrowly avoids bowling into me, bolts down the corridor.

“Ever heard of give way rules?” I call after him, shaking my head. “Failing that, have you ever considered, you know, actually *looking* where you’re going?”

“Yohji!” Ken exclaims, slamming on the brakes and, glancing over his shoulder, giving me a surprised look. “What are you doing up?”

“Running interference to your mad tearing around,” I mutter, stepping past Ken and coming to a stop by the front door. “Or so it would appear anyway.”

“You weren’t supposed to be there,” Ken replies, grinning as he joins me by the door. “Now, I’ll try again. What are you doing up? I thought you were going to stay with Aya.”

“I was,” I respond, shrugging airily. “He decided to share his side of the comforter with me though and, well, if I didn’t get up to cool down there was a good chance he would have woken up to nothing but a puddle lying beside him.”

“Aaaw… How kind and thoughtful of him to share with you like that,” Ken smirks, pushing in front of me in order to peer out the door’s peephole. “Now… Who do you think would be visiting us at this time of night, huh?”

“Given that they’ve clearly got the code to the gate, I kinda expected it to be Singapura,” I murmur, looking at Ken questioningly as he backs away from the peephole and unlocks the door. “Or perhaps not?”

“Mmm… Try again,” Ken replies, his face oddly expressionless as he opens the door and -- instead of going outside -- takes a step back down the corridor. “I’d forgotten I’d handed the responsibility of getting them here to Sing…”

“What are you talking about?” I query, not quite comprehending Ken’s cryptic response. “*Who’d* you hand the responsibility of guiding here to Singapura? I’m sorry, Ken, but I’m confused.”

“Tsk… I can’t believe you’ve forgotten us already,” a familiar face intones with a sigh of disappointment from the doorway. “I’m hurt, I really am. I thought I was more memorable than that.”

Chloé!

Everything making far more sense than it did a couple of seconds ago, I shoot Ken a warning -- ‘keep it to yourself or I swear I’m going to *really* give you something to bitch about in the form of a quick kick up the ass’ -- look and step around the door. “What can I say other than it’s already been a hard night,” I comment cheekily, my mood lifting as, both pleased and *relieved* to see him, I give Chloé a quick hug. “God… If it makes you feel any more loved, it’s *good* to see you.” 

“At the risk of giving you a big head,” Chloé replies, returning my embrace, “it’s good to see you too. Actually, it’s just good to be here period, isn’t it, Free?”

“What is good is being on terra firma again,” Free responds, stepping past Chloé and into the house. “It is, in fact, very good.”

“Our plane hit a spot of turbulence,” Chloé explains, planting a kiss on my cheek before releasing me and giving Free’s arm a little pat. “Oh, okay,” he continues, laughing as Free gives him an incredulous look, “so maybe it hit a *lot* of turbulence. One second everything was fine and the next it was like being on one of those immensely nauseating carnival rides. It hit so suddenly too that the captain wasn’t even able to give out any warning.” Pausing, he laughs again. “It was kind of funny, actually. The man in the next row *literally* lost his drink. It flew out of his glass and, although he tried to catch it, he ended up wearing it.”

“I’m glad you found it so amusing,” Free states coolly, pulling his arm away from Chloé and, spinning on his heels, heading back outside. “If someone would not mind, I would like a hand getting the luggage out of the car.”

“I’ll help,” Ken mutters, not even looking at Chloé as he brushes past him to join Free out the front of the house.

“I see then that I’m still persona non gratis with Ken,” Chloé sighs, shrugging as he glances out the door. “Oh well… I suppose, when all is said and done, I’ve got no one to blame other than myself.”

“More like, ‘oh well, shit happens’, if you ask me,” I reply matter-of-factly, closing my hand around Chloé’s arm and pulling him further down the corridor. “Don’t let him get to you, Chloé-kins. It’s just not worth it.” 

“Mmm… I’d still…” Trailing off, Chloé shrugs again and smiles. “Never mind. All that matters is that we’re here now and that Free is no longer looking quite as green as he did on the plane. While you may not be aware of this, he hates flying and being stuck on a plane next to him is a complete nightmare. You should try it sometime. In fact, I think it’s something I might have to insist upon.”

“You’re all heart,” I snicker, moving out of the way as, laden down with luggage, Ken staggers through the front door and down the corridor.

“What’s in here?” he huffs, flashing an annoyed look at Chloé as he stalks past. “The freakin’ kitchen sink?”

“Packing light, as usual, I see,” I interject mildly, trying to lighten the moment and stop it from deteriorating even further. As though sensing my intent -- and feeling betrayed by it -- Ken turns his baleful gaze on me before, with a derisive snort, continuing on his way towards the bedrooms.

“I’d be careful if I were you, Yohji,” Chloé comments softly, watching Ken’s back with a sad expression on his face. “Or you’ll find yourself in his bad books as well.”

“I love Ken,” I reply, waiting until Free, who, if anything, is carrying even more bags than Ken was, has walked past before returning to the front door and ensuring that it’s locked. “But if he thinks I’m going to have anything to do with the game of favorites he’s currently ensnared in then, I’m sorry, he can just bite me. We’ve got better things to do with our time than bear grudges on our fellow team mates.”

“It’s just a pity some things are easier said than done,” Chloé sighs, glancing across at me and smiling wanly. “But… Enough about Ken. How’s things with you? Oh! And Aya… Is Aya here?”

“Things are just peachy with me,” I murmur, the lie slipping as easily off my tongue as it did when I shared it with Aya earlier. “My flight was fine, Ken picked me up at the airport and, well, we’ve pretty much just been mooching around here ever since. What about you? Nothing… out of the ordinary… happened to either of you while you were on your way?”

“Nothing,” Chloé responds, giving me a strange, oddly panicked look. “Why do you ask? Don’t… Oh God… Please don’t tell me something’s happened to Aya…”

“Um… Happened as in past tense, as in he’s here now and in bed,” I reply hurriedly, mentally berating myself for having so effortlessly put my foot in it. “Shit… I’m sorry, Chloé. I didn’t mean to scare you. Aya… Come on. I’ll explain it to you as I show you to your room.”

“He’s okay though, yeah?” Chloé queries cautiously, making no move to follow me as I start to walk off. “Yohji… Please. If anything’s bad happened I’d rather you just hit me with it.”

“He’s okay,” I confirm, pausing and waiting for Chloé to catch up with me. “He’s concussed, has a sprained ankle, and, I think, the beginning of a cold, but, trust me, other than that he’s honestly fine.”

“Sprained ankle? Concussed?” Chloé murmurs, shaking his head as he walks over to join me. “I don’t think I want to know.”

“Hey, given that Ken and I didn’t want to know either, I think it’s only fair that it gets shared with you,” I reply, starting once again to move towards the bedrooms. “Now, come on…”

Keeping it succinct, which isn’t exactly difficult taking into consideration how little we actually know, I bring Chloé up to speed with Aya’s day as we walk slowly to his room. “So… Ah… There you have it,” I finish, giving a slight bow as I gesture Chloé through the door. “You now know as much as any of us, Aya included.”

“And that’s seriously all you know?” Chloé murmurs, walking into the room and, ignoring his luggage which Ken has dumped in an untidy heap just inside the door, sinking down on the edge of the bed. “Aya… Aya doesn’t remember any of it?”

“Not a thing,” I reply, picking up the largest of the suitcases and placing it on the chest-of-drawers. “And, yeah, before you say anything… It *is*, in a way, just like Wapping all over again.”

“It’s just a game to them, isn’t it?” Chloé mutters flatly, glancing without any real interest around his room. “Whatever their ultimate goal is, playing with Aya… with all of us… it’s just a sideline to them. We’re like, I suspect, a warm up to the main event.”

“Warm up or not, it doesn’t mean we still can’t whoop their ass,” I retort firmly. “Whether we’re down or not, we’re not out, not by a long shot.”

“You’re right,” Chloé agrees, not exactly sounding what I’d call convinced as he stands up and stretches. “Now… I just want to see what Free’s up to before checking in on Aya. Um… If that’s okay with you, of course…”

“Of course it’s okay with me,” I reply quickly, the answer not even being one I have to think about. “A, whatever you think Ken’s opinions on the subject are, I don’t share them, okay? B, given that Aya’s probably concussed, someone should wake him up and check on him anyway. And, C, the truth of the matter is that Aya will be delighted to see you. Hell, the only thing that got a smile out of him before he crashed was your email…”

“Yuki and Michel’s email,” Chloé corrects, his expression brightening as he starts to walk out of the room. “I’d love to take some of the credit for it, but I can’t. Michel came up with the idea while Yuki coded it. All I did was stand around and watch.”

“You oversaw production,” I offer, trailing after Chloé. “If you say that it sounds better.” 

“You know something?” Chloé murmurs, glancing over his shoulder and giving me one of the most genuine looking smiles I’ve seen from anyone -- flight attendants included -- in days. “I *like* how you think.”

“Mmm… That’s ‘cos my way of thinking is the *right* way of thinking,” I respond, grinning back at him. 

“There’s delusional and then there’s Yohji,” Ken interjects with a laugh, clapping me on the shoulder as he joins us in the corridor. “Admit it, Yohji, you’re full of crap and you know it.”

“You are *so* asking for it, you know that?” I reply, turning around and giving Ken a feigned haughty look. “Now… Can we *help* you, or are you merely here to malign my good character?”

“I’m actually here to pass on the message that Free’s in his room sending an email to Switzerland, should anyone be wondering where he is,” Ken responds, narrowing his eyes and looking past -- through -- me to Chloé. “Nice coat,” he comments snidely. “Isn’t it, well, designed for a woman though?” 

Clothing not exactly being high on my list of things to concern myself with at the moment, I have no idea what Ken’s getting at about Chloé’s coat and, turning back around, check it out for myself. And… Yeah… Looking Chloé up and down, I realize that the reason I hadn’t taken any notice of the coat is because it suits him and, having grown accustomed to the way he dresses, basically, I find nothing out of the ordinary about it all. Sure, it’s an ankle length black wool trench coat with a thick fake fur collar and patterned silk lining that, with its full bloom dusty pink roses on a background of dark gray, looks like it was copied from a carpet design popular in the Nineteenth Century, but… Well, vaguely odd or not, it’s Chloé down to the ground and, contrary to Ken’s snooty opinions on it, I have to say that I rather like it.

“It could be,” Chloé replies, stroking the fur collar and not looking at all bothered by Ken’s question. “To tell you the truth, I don’t know. All I know is that I liked it. Oh… And that’s it a Gaultier original.” 

“So what you’re really telling me is that I don’t want to know how much money you wasted on the silly looking thing, is that it?” Ken retorts, folding his arms across his chest and visibly bristling with ill temper. “Not to mention that you were flitting around Paris while we were…”

“If you’re looking for something to do, Ken,” I interrupt flatly, waving him in the direction of the kitchen, “why don’t you go make a cup of tea for Free, huh? He’s had a… turbulent… and traumatic flight and is probably just dying for a drink.”

Giving me an annoyed, hurt look, Ken unfolds his arms and, roughly shoving past Chloé, stomps off down the corridor. “Fine. Whatever,” he mutters over his shoulder. “Never say I can’t tell where I’m not wanted.”

“Ken needs to learn to read,” Chloé comments, glancing at Ken’s retreating back and sighing. “Oh! Ooops. That didn’t exactly come out right, did it?”

“It’s okay,” I reply, echoing Chloé’s sigh and wearily rubbing my temples. “I knew what you meant. And, yeah, you’re right. He needs to find a relaxing hobby, preferably one that can amuse him for hours on end and keep him from stewing in his own juices.”

“Perhaps he’s right though, and I *did* make a terrible mistake by not speaking up earlier,” Chloé murmurs softly, lowering his head and staring at the carpet. “If I’d said something…”

“Forget about Ken,” I state, effectively putting an abrupt end to the conversation by walking the short distance down the corridor to the bedroom. “Now, come on. You wanted to see Aya, yeah?”

“I did, yes,” Chloé responds, following me into the room. “Thank you,” he adds quietly, placing his hand around my arm and squeezing it. “Thank you for not making me feel any worse about things and, also, thank you for allowing me to see Aya. I… I appreciate it.”

Embarrassed by his gratitude and not feeling the slightest bit worthy of it, I gently lift Chloé’s hand off my arm and, giving him a bump with my hip, push him in the direction of the bed. “Go on,” I mutter. “He’s all yours.”

“The way you said that almost makes me want to take back my thanks,” Chloé murmurs blithely as he walks over and gingerly takes a seat on the edge of the bed. Still sound asleep and not looking as though he’s moved since I tucked the bedding around him, Aya remains oblivious to our presence and doesn’t even move when, leaning over him, Chloé brushes some stray strands of hair away from his face.

Resting his hand on Aya’s shoulder, Chloé glances across at me and shakes his head, his expression one of worry. “You’re right, he does appear to have a fever. It’s thankfully not too high but, yeah, he’s definitely feverish.”

“Wonderful,” I sigh, moving closer to the bed and crouching down by Chloé. “Aya getting sick is the last thing we freakin’ need.”

“It’s not his fault,” Chloé replies pragmatically, softly stroking Aya’s cheek. “It just means we have to take better care of him, that’s all.”

“Better care than we have been, you mean,” I mutter dully, scowling down at my knees as yet another crashing wave of failure washes over me. Can’t protect Aya, couldn’t protect…

“Yohji? Are you okay?” Chloé queries, looking away from Aya and fixing his gaze on me. “Is there something bothering you that you haven’t told me?”

“I…”

Fuck. Now is *so* not the time for Chloé to decide he wants to try his luck at reading me. If he does, and he finds out…

“Chloé?” Aya suddenly murmurs thickly, lifting his head slightly off the pillow. “Is that you?”

Yes! Go Aya and his immaculate as ever timing.

Shaking his head and mouthing ‘saved’ at me, Chloé returns his attention to Aya and puts on a performance of sighing heavily. “You poor thing,” he murmurs, once again stroking Aya’s cheek. “That said, and my sympathies for your misfortune aside, I have to say I’m beginning to think you shouldn’t be allowed out on your own.”

“And I’m beginning to think you may possibly be right,” Aya replies, rolling over and, with a complete upheaval of the bedding, slowly dragging himself into a sitting position. “Chloé… I’m so glad you’re here,” he continues, kicking the comforter away and crawling across the mattress to hug Chloé. “Free… Is he here too? Did you travel together like I suggested? Are you both okay? Has anything happened that I need to know about?”

“Any more questions you’d like to hit me with while you’re at it, or will that do for now?” Chloé laughs, returning Aya’s embrace with his right arm while using his left hand to brush back Aya’s hair in order to inspect the bump on his temple. “To answer round one however, yes, Free is here too, yes, we traveled together and, yes, we’re both okay. As for whether anything happened that you need to know about? Well, I suppose that depends on how interested you are in knowing that there were a few moments during the flight where I thought Free was going to throw up on me…”

“Turbulence, yes?” Aya queries, blinking at me over Chloé’s shoulder but, seemingly quite happy with his position, making no move to break the embrace. “That’s all you’ve got to report though, that your flight hit a bumpy patch?”

“That’s all I’ve got to report,” Chloé confirms, rubbing -- I suspect, both unconsciously and oblivious to the fact I’m standing behind him -- his hand lightly up and down Aya’s back. “Other than the turbulence and Free turning a delicate shade of green, nothing out of the ordinary happened at all. In fact, until Yohji told me about your… little adventure… this afternoon I’d almost been feeling good about things.”

“Sorry,” Aya mumbles, resting his head on Chloé’s shoulder and quite literally slumping against him. “I… I’m so hot. I feel as though I’m burning up.”

“That, my dear, is because you are,” Chloé replies, sharing a worried glance with me before leaning over Aya and, reaching down the neck of his top, pulling out the tag. Reading it, he shakes his head and -- finally -- extricates himself from Aya’s limpet like hold on him. “And this… this whatever it is that you’re wearing,” he mutters disdainfully, his eyes widening as he gets his first look at the front of the top, “isn’t helping things by being made out of one hundred percent polyester.” 

“It’s not mine,” Aya murmurs, lifting his head and scowling in my direction. “It’s Yohji’s and I’m wearing it because Yukio… sorry… *Bengal*… has taken off with my suitcase in order to check it out for tracers or bombs or whatever. *Don’t* for a second think I’m wearing it because I actually want to.”

“Lucky Bengal, whoever Bengal is,” Chloé responds, looking over at me and pointing at Aya’s top. “Let me guess, this is your way of getting Aya back for your wasted afternoon of worry…”

“You’re both as bad as each other,” I protest, laughing at how Chloé’s reaction to the top all but mirrors Aya’s. “Honestly. It’s just a top.”

“It’s not just a top,” Chloé retorts with a smirk. “It’s a crime against fashion *and* it’s making Aya hot. I’d ask what possessed you to buy it but I don’t really think I want to know. Now…” Trailing off, Chloé gently pushes Aya away from him and stands up. “While you’re more than welcome to continue with your doubtful fashion statement if that’s what you wish, I’m sure I’ve got some spare pajamas that I can lend you.”

“Please,” Aya replies, a look of what I take to be relief crossing his face as he swings his legs over the side of the mattress. “If you don’t mind waiting until the room has stopped spinning around me, I’ll come with you.”

“Um… I don’t actually think you should be up,” I interject, moving closer to the bed. “If you just get back in bed I’m sure Chloé wouldn’t mind bringing the pajamas to you.”

“I want to see Free too,” Aya mutters stubbornly, standing up and taking an unsteady step towards Chloé. “Besides, I’m not an invalid and I’ll do what I want.”

“You know, if I ask nicely and tell him that you’re on your death bed, I’m sure I can get Free to come to you,” Chloé murmurs, reaching out and closing his hand around Aya’s arm to steady him. “Aya… Yohji’s right. I think…”

“I’m fine,” Aya interrupts, glaring down at Chloé’s hand as though he hopes the very heat of his gaze will make the hand and what it represents go away. “I’m just a little hot and, well, to the best of my knowledge anyway, no one ever died from a sprained ankle and a head ache. Now, if the pair of you mother hens don’t mind…”

“As I said before, Chloé,” I state, shrugging as -- knowing full well I’m staring a losing battle in the face and that I may as well give up now -- I start to walk out the door, “he’s all yours. Me, I’m going for a smoke.”

“I’m going to remember this,” Chloé calls out after me as I step into the corridor and, wanting my coat from the rack that’s there, head towards the front door.

Smiling to myself -- and feeling no compunction whatsoever about leaving Aya and his feverish, querulous mood to Chloé -- I grab my coat and pull it on before walking through the living room to the patio. Singapura thankfully having left my smokes on the table, I take a seat on one of the wrought iron chairs and light up a cigarette. Bringing it to my lips, I’ve barely taken a drag when, looking like the human embodiment of a thundercloud, Ken stomps through the still open sliding glass door to join me.

“What’s Aya doing in Chloé’s room, huh?” he demands, slamming his hands down on the table and pushing his face in mine.

Unimpressed by -- Ken in general right at this very point in time -- Ken’s reaction to something which, essentially, is none of his freakin’ business, I lean back in my chair and casually blow smoke in his face. “I dunno,” I drawl, brushing imaginary ash from my coat and playing the disinterested card for all it’s worth. “Given that they’ve been apart for a couple of days, maybe they’re having a quickie…”

“Yohji!” Ken snaps, angrily brushing away the smoke and, radiating displeasure, sinking down in the chair opposite mine. “How can you be so fucking blasé about this? Chloé’s…”

“Chloé’s *what* exactly?” I interrupt, hoping the annoyed tone of my voice is enough of a hint for Ken to give it up now. “The reincarnation of Hitler? Public enemy number one? A threat to national safety? Come on, Ken. Spit it out. If you’re gonna bitch you need to be able to back it up.”

“I just don’t know how you’re able to be so blasé about this,” Ken repeats, conveniently ignoring my question and, I suppose for no other reason than he can, giving the table leg a vicious kick.

“And I don’t know why you’re getting your boxers in such a knot about things of minor or no consequence,” I reply, shrugging. “So, really, that just about makes us even.”

“What do you *mean* things of minor or no consequence?” Ken grinds out, leaning across the table and glaring at me sullenly. “Chloé suspected Schwarz were involved from the very beginning and he didn’t fucking say anything! If we’d known…”

“If we’d known Schwarz were yanking our chain we would have immediately trotted off to their secret base and stopped them dead?” I offer sarcastically, cutting Ken off and coolly taking another drag on my cigarette. “Come on, Ken. Even if Chloé had shared his concerns, what good would it have really done, huh? Sure, we may have been able to focus our search better, but that’s about it.”

“He still should have said something sooner,” Ken mutters defensively, thumping his fist once again on the poor unfortunate tabletop. “At least that way we’d have had a better idea what we were up against and could have prepared accordingly. While, okay, you’re probably right in that we wouldn’t have been able to stop them, it still would have been in our best interests if we’d known.”

“Point conceded,” I murmur, flashing a hopeful smile at Ken. “Now, how about dropping this topic and moving on, yeah?”

“No,” Ken states, settling back in his chair and, to my considerable dismay, making himself comfortable. “I haven’t finished yet. There’s also the… small… fact that Chloé’s had past involvement with Rosenkrus.”

“So has Free, in case you’ve forgotten,” I sigh, stubbing my cigarette butt out in the ashtray and immediately lighting another one. “So perhaps you’d better scrub him off your Christmas card list as well.”

“This isn’t about Free,” Ken replies, a flicker of doubt appearing in his eyes that he masks by looking away from me and staring out into the garden. “This is about Chloé…”

“And the witch hunt you’ve decided to personally mount in relation to him,” I interject, drumming the fingers of my left hand on the tabletop and deciding, fuck it, the time has come to simply let Ken have it. “No offence, Ken, but get over it already. I mean, if you really want to point around the finger of blame you need to take in the full hypothetical picture which, if you stop to think about it, includes Free. He’s Rosenkrus too. Not to mention, well, given his skill with the tarot, couldn’t he have perhaps seen what was coming and warned us? Oh! That’s, of course, assuming he’s not in cahoots with Chloé and their whole purpose in life is simply to fuck with Weiss…” 

“You’re not taking this seriously!” Ken shoots back, twisting back around to glower at me.

“And you’re taking the wrong things too seriously,” I retort, not knowing whether I’m going about any of this the right way or not but, at the same time, refusing to back down now. “You’ve got issues with Chloé, Ken, and honestly, they’ve got to stop. Yes, he should have said something about Schwarz earlier but that’s it. Whatever else he’s done to wrong you I’m thinking is solely in your imagination.”

“He monopolizes Aya,” Ken mutters sourly, the flat, pissed off look in his eyes telling me I really am going to be joining Chloé in his bad books if I don’t watch myself. “Look at now for example. He’s barely been here for fifteen minutes and already he’s dragged Aya away from you.”

“For what it’s worth, I actually dumped Aya on him,” I murmur, wondering just where Ken’s going with his argument now. “Chloé offered to lend Aya some pajamas and Aya insisted on going to his room with him to get them. As for dragging him away from me? For God’s sake, Ken, get a fucking grip. Chloé and Aya are friends and, assuming Aya hasn’t already fallen asleep again, they’re probably just talking like we are.”

“You don’t know that for certain,” Ken replies, shaking his head. “For all you know they could be…”

“Fucking?” I interrupt bluntly, my tolerance levels for this conversation having suddenly hit rock bottom. “If so, then good luck to ‘em. Don’t forget though, Ken, it takes two to tango…”

“Aya should be with you,” Ken responds matter-of-factly, clearly deciding that there’s nothing to be gained from my crudely dangled bait. “Especially now. Going off with Chloé is just… callous… and I would have expected better from him.”

“He doesn’t know,” I whisper, stubbing my cigarette out and, wanting something in my hand to toy with, picking up my lighter. “So, really, he’s not being callous at all.”

“What do you mean he doesn’t know?” Ken queries with obvious disbelief. “Surely you told him…”

“Nope, and you’re not to either,” I reply, feeling Ken’s attention shift fully to me and wishing I’d never opened my mouth. “Now, before you see fit to hit me with a lecture, it’s not up for debate, okay? Aya’s got enough to worry about at the moment and I’ll tell him when the time is right. Until then though, he simply doesn’t need to know.”

“But…”

“Uh-uh. No buts. This is my decision to make and, guess what, I’ve made it.”

“Yohji…”

“Yohji *nothing*. Just drop it. I’m warning you, Ken. I don’t want Aya to know and that’s all there is to it.”

“This is bullshit,” Ken sighs, his shoulders slumped in apparent defeat. “All of it. The way I’m feeling, Omi’s abduction, what happened to Aya… The whole fucking lot of it is bullshit. I want someone to blame and, unable to lash out at Schwarz, I turn my attention to Chloé. I… I don’t really hate him, you know. He pisses me off at times, and I don’t know what’s going on between him and Aya and it annoys me because I think Aya should be with you, but… he’s okay and, yeah, I’m glad that he’s here. Free too. They mightn’t be Weiss, but I think it’s clear that we’re going to need all the help we can get and, well, they’re good at what they do. So…”

“Which, going on your earlier behavior, is high praise indeed,” I reply, mentally breathing a sigh of relief that Ken’s finally woken up to himself and lighting another cigarette to celebrate. “Now, come on, cheer up a little. We’re all here now and, after Sing’s debrief tomorrow morning, I’m sure things will start moving in the right direction.”

“Cheer up?” Ken echoes dubiously, standing up and stretching. “God… What a nice idea. One, I think, I’ll sleep on. Good night, Yohji. I’m sorry for chewing your ear off, and I know I’ve been acting like a pain in the ass, but… Thank you. Talking to you has really helped. I’m not saying I’m going looking for him now or anything, but next time I see Chloé I might even apologize to him…”

“Sounds good to me,” I respond, impressed at Ken’s change of heart and hoping like mad that it lasts. “If it makes you feel any better, I think he understands anyway and isn’t bearing a grudge or anything.”

“Not that I could blame him if he was,” Ken murmurs, shrugging as he starts to move towards the door. “Just watch, Yohji. Come morning I’ll be an entirely different person. For the good of the team and our self-imposed mission, I’m kinda thinking I have to be.”

“Well, that’s another way of looking at it, yeah,” I reply, lifting my hand in a lazy wave. “’Night, Ken. I hope you sleep well.”

“Mmm… You and me both,” Ken smiles, retuning my wave before walking into the living room and heading in the direction of the bedrooms.

Relieved to be alone, I settle back in my chair and, not wanting to think about a damn thing, simply try to concentrate on getting the most out of my smoke. 

Don’t wanna think about Ken and whether his reasonable mood will hold out. Don’t wanna think about how I’m going to be able to help in any way. Don’t wanna think about what happened to Aya and how it’s becoming more and more likely that he’s come down with a cold. Don’t wanna think about…

No!

Thinking. Remembering. Hurting. Lamenting.

All. Futile.

All…

It’s all in the past.

Couldn’t stop it. Can’t undo it. Can’t…

The sound of footsteps moving in the direction of the living room breaking through my oppressive -- and to think I’ve got the nerve to tell Ken *he* needs to get a fucking grip! -- thoughts, I take a deep breath to calm myself and glance through the door into the house just in time to watch Aya, with Chloé trailing behind him, limp slowly into the room and take a seat in one of the armchairs. Over the top of his borrowed black pajamas, he’s wearing Chloé’s fur collared coat as a robe and I can’t help but smile at the quaint sight he makes. 

My smile then broadens even further as Chloé fusses over settling Aya -- who, surprise, surprise, responds by scowling at him and batting his hand away -- before disappearing momentarily out of the room and returning with a box of tissues and a blanket. He then, after depositing the tissues on the arm of the armchair and the blanket over Aya’s knees, turns around and walks off again. When he returns he’s carrying a rubbish bin and has Free in tow. In his hand Free holds a steaming cup of *something* and, my mood lifting by the second as I watch the domestic scene being played out in front of me, I very nearly start to laugh as he calmly hands it to Aya. Taking it from him reluctantly, Aya sniffs the contents of the cup before wrinkling his nose and trying to return it to Free. When Free refuses to take it back and folds his arms across his chest while Chloé shakes his head and shrugs at the beseeching look Aya shoots him, it all becomes too much for me and I begin to snicker softly. This then gives way to a fit of the giggles as, with all the grace of a recalcitrant child, Aya gulps down the drink and holds the cup upside down for a second to prove it is indeed empty before handing it back to Free and slumping sulkily back in the chair.

And… I don’t know. Be it either wishful thinking or simply sheer desperation on my behalf, watching Chloé and Free’s gentle -- yet at the same time ‘take no shit’ -- handling of Aya somehow offers me an odd sense of hope. Although they’re not Weiss and their history disagrees with Ken’s -- all things Weiss -- world view, I feel better knowing that they’re here as, unlike me, they’re sure to know not only what they’re doing but also how to see it through.

~*~*~*~*~*~

My cigarette finished, I pick my coffee up from the table and carry it out onto the small bridge that crosses the fish pond and allows access from the house to the garden shed. Despite the temperature being low enough to make a polar bear feel perfectly at home, it’s a lovely morning. Surprisingly bright sunlight brings out the different, lush greens of the garden and, obviously making the most of the sunshine, even the blink-and-you’ll-miss-them goldfish are more active and visible than they have been. 

Placing my coffee on the bridge’s wooden handrail, I shove my hands into the pockets of my coat and jog up and down on the spot to keep warm. Although, having finished my smoke, I don’t have be out here, I like the feel of the sun on my face and, chill factor aside, don’t feel in any great rush to retreat inside. When Singapura -- who’s on her way with half a pharmacy of cold remedies for Aya -- gets here I’ll go back in, but, until then I definitely think keeping to myself is the way to go.

Although I could barely keep my eyes open when I finally went to bed -- and, incidentally, why is doing nothing other than sitting on your ass and worrying so damn tiring? -- I didn’t sleep well and now have a headache throbbing dully just behind my left temple. Actually, to be more precise, I didn’t so much as not sleep *well* as I hardly slept at *all*. First it took me hours to actually fall asleep and, when I finally did, I then woke after what felt like mere minutes to the sound of Aya coughing.

In the swirling mass of uncertainty that’s surrounding us, there’s now one thing that’s certain though, and that’s that Aya *definitely* has a cold. A bad cold at that. If he’s awake he’s either coughing or snuffling and when he’s asleep the infection in his nasal cavity makes him sound as though he’s wheezing. While not exactly a positive, I’m sure it’s just a common cold though and that, really, there’s nothing untoward about it at all. In a couple of days -- not that, granted, we *have* a couple of days to spare -- he’ll be over it and back to normal. The timing sucks, sure, but, well, shit happens. Apart from plying him with drugs and insisting he stay indoors and rest, there’s not really anything else any of us can do about it. 

Ken, living up to last night’s promise to be a new person in the morning, even took the news about Aya’s health calmly and *didn’t*, as I half suspected he would, behave as though it was the equivalent of the final straw, which is something of an encouraging sign all in itself. I don’t know whether he’s apologized to Chloé yet though and am almost too afraid to ask in case it inadvertently sets him off again. I hope he has however and that he wasn’t just trying to fob me off last night as, really, things are bad enough without internal politics tearing us apart.

One for all and all for one. And… yeah… all that nonsense.

The jogging on the spot having warmed me to the point of almost being too hot, I pick up my coffee and, taking a sip, stare down into the pond. A brave goldfish flits out from beneath a water lily and stares back at me for a second before -- no food, no show -- swimming under the bridge and disappearing from sight. Vaguely recalling having seen a tin of fish food in the patio somewhere, I’m about to walk over and look for it when Free, materializing out of freakin’ nowhere, I might add, walks across the garden and joins me on the bridge. Apparently immune to, or refusing to be beaten by, the weather, he’s only wearing a gray tank top over a long black sarong and, as though in sympathy, the sight of him causes me to hug my coat tighter around me.

“I am sorry for your loss,” Free states softly, leaning on the handrail and looking out across the pond.

Damn!

“Who told you?” I sigh, turning around and leaning my back up against the rail. “Did Ken open his big mouth and spill or was Chloé somehow able to pick it up from me?”

“Neither,” Free replies, glancing at me, his expression as calm and unreadable as ever.

“The cards then?” I murmur, wanting to know how he knows even if it isn’t going to do me an iota of good. “Did you read it in the cards.”

“The cards hold no power over the past,” Free responds, returning his gaze to the pond. “If you must know however, I read it in the Asahi.”

The paper… Shit! I can’t believe I’d forgotten all about the media and how newsworthy the event was. Or, Goddamn it, still is, by the sounds of it.

“Today’s edition?” I query hesitantly, my attempt at sounding casual failing, even to my own ears, dismally. 

“Yesterday’s,” Free replies, standing up and giving me a look that I think passes for concern. “Yohji? Are you okay? I apologize if I have spoken out of turn or have said something to either offend or hurt you.”

“It’s not that,” I mutter, avoiding Free’s gaze and looking down at my shoes. “More that, well, it’s not something I really want everyone to know about, okay? I don’t mind that you know, and I thank you for your condolences, but… Please. I just don’t want Aya to know. Not now anyway.”

Not ever, preferably, but certainly not for the time being will do for now.

“You may have a point there,” Free states, placing his hand on my shoulder and squeezing it. “While I can not say I agree with it, I will nonetheless respect your wishes and see to it that Chloé does too.”

“Thank you,” I reply, looking up and managing to dredge up the energy to flash Free a relieved smile. “There are times when I think I’m going about it the wrong way too, but… I don’t know. Dumping it on Aya, especially now that he’s sick, just doesn’t strike me as right.”

“So long as you are aware of the possible consequences of your decision,” Free replies, releasing my shoulder and, with a nonchalant shrug, starting to walk off the bridge. “Now, if you wouldn’t mind returning inside, Singapura has arrived and is requesting our presence in the conference room.”

“She’s here already?” I exclaim, glancing at my watch and hardly believing that I’ve already been up for over an hour. “Shit! Why didn’t someone tell me earlier? I promised Aya that I’d wake him when she got here and he’s now going to have my balls for keeping everyone waiting.”

“Do not worry about Aya,” Free murmurs, waiting for me to join him on the patio before walking into the living room. “Chloé is seeing to it that he joins us in the conference room.”

Chloé and Aya… Great. Here’s to hoping like mad Ken’s easy going mood is still firmly in place and he doesn’t see this as the equivalent of a red rag to a bull.

“Oh… I would have thought, given how anxious he is for things to get moving, Ken would have volunteered for the task himself,” I reply as casually as I can manage as I follow Free into the house.

“Until Singapura informed him that Bengal would not be arriving with Aya’s luggage until later this morning, he *had* been somewhat adamant that he was the man for the task,” Free responds, walking through the living room and down the corridor that leads to the conference room. “He then, however, had a dramatic change of heart and positively insisted that Chloé do the honors.”

“I hope someone called him a wimp,” I laugh, the weight that had suddenly landed on my shoulders lifting as quickly as it had arrived. “I mean, what a wuss...”

“Singapura actually called him quite a few more things than… wimp,” Free replies, opening the door to the conference room and, a half smirk at odds with his otherwise beatific expression, gesturing me through. “If we are lucky the heated argument that ensued will have been successfully, for one party at least, concluded.”

“Speaking as the winning party, it’s definitely been concluded,” Singapura states, looking up from the laptop she’s got set up on the large, pretentiously expensive looking conference table that dominates the room and grinning smugly. “Ken though, I’m sorry to have to report, is still sulking.”

“I am not fucking sulking,” Ken mutters, giving Sing a -- dare I say it? -- sulky look from his seat at the table opposite her. “I’m merely letting you bask in your perceived victory because I’m a gentleman.”

“Now I’ve heard everything,” I snort, looking down at the length of the table and raising an eyebrow at what either Singapura or Ken have used -- in lieu of anything as mundane as nameplates or, God forbid, leaving us to choose for ourselves where we want to sit -- to mark the table’s seating arrangements. In front of Ken are three cans of Coke, while next to them, marking, I assume, where I’m meant to sit, is a tray containing a coffee pot and black ceramic cup. Across the other side of the table, Free’s and Chloé’s places are each marked by a teapot and matching cup while the amount of medicinal paraphernalia that marks Aya’s seat has to be seen to be believed. Cough lozenges battle for space amongst the bottles of vitamins, water, and cough medicine and, just so as to ensure all bases are covered, there’s even two different boxes of tissues and an industrial size packet of paracetamol. 

“Sure you’ve got enough drugs and stuff there?” I query, sinking down in the seat next to Ken and, the rich aroma well and truly calling my name, instinctively reaching for the coffee. “More importantly, did you leave any stock in the pharmacy?”

“You know, you’re almost as funny as Ken is,” Singapura retorts, sliding her laptop down to the head of the table and, standing up, shifting seats to join it. “In fact, you’re both a veritable laugh a minute.”

“Love you too, Sing,” Ken replies sweetly, popping the tab on a can of Coke and toasting her with it. “Now, sick and suffering or not, how freakin’ slow can Aya be, huh? Doesn’t he know that I’m dying here?”

“You want to know about dying, try living inside my head at the moment,” Aya mutters hoarsely, limping into the room and making a very slow beeline for his designated seat. Still wearing Chloé’s pajamas and coat and looking like death warmed up, it’s clear that he’s not well and, really, although I know I’d only be wasting my breath if I raised it, I don’t even know why he needs to be here. God knows it’s not like he’s going to be in any sort of fit state to so much as leave the house for the next couple of days let alone be capable of doing anything mission related. Keeping up-to-date may be all well and good and one of his priorities but, just call me misguided, I personally think he’d be better off still in bed. 

“Nice outfit,” Singapura comments facetiously as, with a loud huff of breath, Aya sits down. “It’s true then, I see, what they say about London being on the cutting edge of fashion.” 

“The coat’s Parisian, actually,” Chloé murmurs, flashing Sing a flirtatious grin as he slips into the room and sits down next to Aya. “But, as you mentioned, the look *is* quite fetching. Just because one is ill and… crabby… doesn’t mean that one still can’t take pride in what one is wearing.”

“One is only wearing this… fetching… outfit because one doesn’t have a choice in the matter,” Aya replies tetchily, frowning at the mini-drugstore in front of him and, reaching across the table, grabbing a bottle of water. “Incidentally, Singapura, what exactly is taking Yu… *Bengal* so long with my luggage?”

“Perhaps he hasn’t finished trying everything on yet?” I offer lightly, scoring, for my admittedly off-the-cuff effort, myself a laugh from Sing and Ken, a vaguely disgusted look from Chloé, and a dull, lacking its usual intensity glare from Aya. Free, mind you, doesn’t react at all and merely pours himself a cup of tea. “Hey… You never know…”

“And what’s more I don’t *want* to know either,” Aya mutters, downing half the bottle of water in two long gulps. “Just… No. Don’t be gross.”

“It’s okay, Aya, I don’t think you’ve got anything to worry about anyway,” Ken states, patting me on the shoulder. “If Yukio hero worships any of us then it’s Yohji here.”

He… does? Huh? Why the fuck would Yukio, Mr Dragon’s Tears, hero worship me?

I…

I’m out of my depth. Singapura hasn’t even started imparting information yet and -- go me -- *already* I’m floundering. There is no way this can be good. 

“What a relief,” Aya responds drily, his eyes narrowing as he watches Chloé pick through the collection of pill bottles and packets in front of him. “I’m sure I’ll sleep better tonight for knowing that. Now… Dare I ask what you’re doing or is this just another example of where ignorance is in fact bliss?”

“Mixing you a cocktail of pills that, unless you want another cup of that tea we gave you last night, you’re going to dutifully swallow without so much as a *murmur* of complaint,” Chloé replies, adding two paracetamol to his small, brightly colored collection of pills before pushing them all across to Aya. “Pills or tea. It’s your call.”

“Given that I’d rather drink sewer water than that muck, I suppose it’ll have to be the pills then,” Aya mutters unenthusiastically, picking up the vitamins and painkillers and staring at them dubiously.

“In case you’re wondering, I’m *not* trying to poison you,” Chloé comments, shaking his head and, reaching across, tapping his finger on Aya’s bottle of water. “Come on. Hurry up and take the damn things so we can get on with it.”

“I couldn’t have put it better myself,” Singapura sighs, leaning down and picking something up from under the desk as, either his professionalism or curiosity getting the better of him, Aya swallows his pills with a mouthful of water. “Hallelujah,” Sing adds, sitting back up and throwing a red cardboard poppy onto the middle of the tower. “Now, if we’ve finished playing doctors and nurses for the time being, how about we get down to business, yes?”

“Where’d that fucking thing come from?” Ken queries bluntly, picking the poppy up and, before anyone has time to stop him or tell him not to, crushing it in his fist.

“Taking into consideration where some of those poppies have been found recently,” Chloé murmurs, pulling a face, “are you sure you really want to know?”

“Fuck!” Ken swears, dropping the mangled poppy on the table and, with his finger, flicking it back down to Singapura. “Why didn’t someone stop me?” he continues, rubbing his hand on his jeans in a half assed attempt to decontaminate it. “Just… Ack! C’mon, Sing, either tell us where it came from or I’m up and outta here.”

“Well, originally it came from England,” Singapura replies coolly, smoothing the poppy flat on the table. “Or, if you want to be precise, from a factory just outside of Liverpool. If you’re *that* interested, I’m sure I’ve got the actual address somewhere.”

“So what you’re really saying is that it’s from the same stolen batch of poppies that were found in Kettleman,” I mutter, jumping in before Ken puts two and two together and puts his foot in it. “Yes?”

“Yes,” Sing confirms, looking up from the poppy and nodding. “This poppy is from the same batch as those found both in Kettleman and Persia’s office.”

“And?” Aya prompts, looking, I hate to say it, far from with it and listlessly rolling his bottle of water between his hands. “Why are we having to look at it?”

“Because Bengal found it in the cemetery by your parents’ graves, that’s why,” Singapura replies matter-of-factly, sliding the cardboard poppy across to Aya. “He went back there last night to see if we’d missed anything and, lo and behold, there it was.”

“No,” Aya whispers faintly, the bottle of water slipping from his hands and hitting the tabletop with a dull thud as, the shock causing him to take a sharp intake of voice, he starts to cough.

“Glad to see they’re sticking to their chosen calling card,” Chloé murmurs, sharing a worried look with me across the table as he rubs his hand across Aya’s shoulder blades in an attempt to help suppress the coughing. 

“Well, when you’re on to a good thing you may as well stick to it,” I reply, leaning over the table and snatching up the packet of cough lozenges. “Here,” I continue, unwrapping a lozenge and holding it out to Aya. “Take this. It should help.”

“The… only… thing… that’d help… at the moment,” Aya mutters, between coughs, “is knowing just what the… fuck is… going on here.”

“That said, and, by the way, I’m not disagreeing with you at all, I really think you should take the cough lozenge,” Chloé states, taking the cough drop out of my hand and placing it in Aya’s. “Come on… Given that I appear to have scored the role of the Big Bad here, either you take that or, and you can glower and bitch at me all you like, you’re going straight back to bed. Whether it’s dawned on you yet or not, you have to get better before you’re going to be any use to anyone.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Aya retorts huskily, popping the lozenge into his mouth with a hand I can’t help but note is shaking from the strain the coughing attack put his body under. “You think I want to be feeling this ill, this… useless?” 

“Of course not,” Chloé replies, giving Aya’s hand a squeeze. “I’m… *we’re*… just concerned about you and, whether you like it or not, we’re going to look after you to the best of our abilities and, sorry, there’s nothing you can do about that. If it helps though, look at it this way… The reasons we’re going to ply you with pills and sit on you to keep you in bed until you’re feeling better are purely selfish, okay? If we’re going to have to face Schuldig and whoever his current merry band of psychopaths are then it’s only fair that you get the joy too… Got it?”

“Chloé’s right,” Ken pipes up, leaning back in his chair and wagging his finger at Aya. “You’ve got to play nice and be a good patient so you too can share in the fun, games and bloodshed.”

“Aaah… Chloé didn’t actually say anything about bloodshed,” I murmur, elbowing Ken gently in the ribs. “Perhaps if we’re lucky we can get out of this without…”

“Fuck that,” Ken interrupts, a cold, vaguely menacing expression passing over his face. “What those bastards have done this time is personal and I for one aim to see that they pay for it.”

“You know, slightly different hairstyles and two new faces aside, it really is just like old times,” Singapura drawls, standing up and, putting her hands on her hips, glaring at each of us in turn. “Here I am, wanting to get the information session out of the way, and there you are, bickering and chatting amongst yourselves as though I’m invisible. Now, whether you’ve either not heard this from me before or have forgotten it, allow me to remind you that if I wanted to be speaking to unruly children I’d be a teacher. In other words, shut the fuck up already, okay?”

“Oh, Sing,” Ken smiles, sitting up straight in his chair and folding his hands primly on the table. “You’re right, if only Omi was here it *would* be just like old times. Now, is this better?”

“You may recall I said last night that I’d missed you,” Singapura sighs, sitting back down again and drumming her fingers impatiently on the keyboard of her laptop. “Well, that was then and this is now. Right now I could cheerfully package you all back up and Fed-Ex you on the next available flight home to London.”

“I am unsure as to whether I should be offended by this or not,” Free comments mildly, glancing at Chloé and giving the smallest of shrugs. “What about you?”

“Me? Oh, all of a sudden I find myself really missing Mihirogi,” Chloé replies blithely, looking towards Sing and effecting an expression that’s equal parts surprised and apologetic. “Sorry… No offence meant. It’s just that Mihirogi would *never* speak so rudely to us.”

“What are you talking about?” Ken queries, giving up on playing the role of well-behaved school boy and reaching for another can of Coke. “Some of the things she’s called me make Sing’s insults absolutely pale in comparison. Don’t you remember the time she…”

“Enough!” Sing exclaims, slamming the screen down on her laptop and probably shortening the poor thing’s lifespan by a year or two in the process. “If you’d rather sit here and gossip while I write everything up and email it to you then, please, just say the word.”

“You heard Singapura,” Aya whispers, resting his elbows on the table and rubbing his hands over his face. “Shut the fuck up and let her get on with it. While I don’t know about the rest of you, *I* don’t want to be here any longer than I absolutely have to be.”

“Anyone care to argue with Aya?” Singapura murmurs, the slightest of triumphant smiles tugging on her lips when no one deigns to reply. “Good. That’s what I thought. Now, now that I’ve finally got your attention, I promise to make this as short as possible. For the sake of coherency, despite the fact that a lot of it will be merely going over what you already know, I’ll start with Persia’s abduction.”

“Omi,” Ken corrects quietly, shaking his head. “His name is Omi. Free and Chloé… while they may not know him in person, they know him as Omi too. So, please, refer to him by the name we all know him by.”

“As you are all aware courtesy of the live-feed footage beamed directly to your network in London, Omi was abducted three days ago from his office in Tokyo,” Sing continues, accepting Ken’s request without either debate or comment and simply pushing on. “Since that time, despite the best efforts of myself and the few Kritiker agents that survived the attacks directed at them, we have been unable to discover anything as to his possible whereabouts. While admittedly this is an overused and incredibly pointless statement, it is quite literally as though he’s disappeared off the face of the earth.”

“Was there no one else in the office at the time of the abduction?” Chloé queries, frowning. “I’m sure it’s an angle you’ve already covered, but…”

“Not only covered, but done to death,” Singapura interrupts, an exasperated expression crossing her face not, I don’t think, at Chloé’s question but at the fact she doesn’t have a good answer for him. “Yes, there were staff around, a couple of early birds on other floors and a couple of cleaners, but not one of them is able to tell us a damn thing. One cleaner in particular was vacuuming the foyer directly outside Omi’s office and, although we know Schuldig and Nagi *had* to have walked straight past him, he claims not to have seen anything out of the ordinary that morning. We even tried hypnosis on him but his story didn’t change. I can only think, although I didn’t know he possessed the power to tinker with people’s memories, is that Schuldig somehow did something to him and that whatever he saw will forever remain locked away and out of reach.”

“Schuldig doesn’t have the ability to…” Stopping himself from continuing, Chloé pales and, slowly shaking his head, glances at Free. “Oh no…”

“Oh no *what*?” Ken demands banging his hands down on the table. “Chloé, if you’re fucking keeping things from us again I swear I’ll have no freakin’ qualms about jumping the table and shaking the Goddamn truth out of you.” 

“Chloé can not keep from you that which he does not know himself,” Free replies, giving Ken the sort of look that brings it succinctly home to me why people are prone to cross the road to avoid him if he’s in a bad mood. “What he is thinking however, and going on what Singapura has said I am apt to agree with him, is that Schuldig’s powers have increased.”

“Increased?” Aya murmurs, unwrapping another cough lozenge and popping it into his mouth. “I’m not sure that’s something I really want to think about.”

“Our powers, or gifts, or whatever you want to call what it is that makes us freaks and what drew us to the attention of Rosenkrus in the first place, can, depending on the individual, *alter* over time,” Chloé explains softly, directing his response seemingly to the teapot in front of him. “Some never change, some experience a surge around the time of puberty, while, for others, the changes are totally random and can be neither predicted nor guaranteed. As… unpleasant… as the thought is, it’s entirely conceivable that Schuldig’s powers may have… mutated.”

“Mutated,” Ken mutters, scowling. “In relation to that bastard I doubt you could have used a more apt word. Mutated… Mutant… Yeah. Works for me.”

“What you’re saying though is that this Schuldig is now… *more*… powerful than he was before, yes?” I query, not particularly wanting to sound as stupid as I know I must, but, at the same time, wanting to make sure I’m hearing things correctly.

“Quite possibly, yes,” Free replies, pouring Chloé a cup of tea and, when he doesn’t take it from him, placing it in his hands. “While his powers have always been considerable, I have not heard of him possessing the ability to so thoroughly erase people’s memories before.”

“He may have gained other powers too,” Chloé whispers, folding his hands around the cup and sighing. “Given the… unpredictability… of these changes, it’s impossible to say what he’s now capable of. This… if we’re correct in our assumptions and that *is* what actually happened to the cleaner… ability to erase memories though, that’s definitely new as far as Schuldig is concerned.”

“It would, if you care to think along these lines, go some way in explaining why Aya can not recall what happened to him in either Wapping or the cemetery,” Free muses, taking a sip of his tea and calmly ignoring the horrified look Aya shoots him. “If Schuldig was involved, and we have to accept the high likelihood of this, then he could have simply… tweaked… Aya’s…”

“Stop it,” Aya interrupts, shaking his head and looking sicker -- which is no small achievement in itself -- than he did a couple of minutes ago. “Unless it’s absolutely relevant to the matter at hand, I don’t wish to discuss the possibility of Schuldig… tweaking… anything.”

“It may not be entirely relevant to Omi’s abduction,” Chloé murmurs, choosing this time to talk to his cup of tea, “but nor is it a thought we can completely dismiss. That said, having now raised it, I think we can move on.”

“That statement I made earlier about you all being the same, I take it back,” Singapura comments, looking up from the pad of paper she’d busily been taking notes on and poking Ken on the arm with her pen. “Free, Chloé… Thank you for raising the issue of Schuldig’s powers having increased. While I’ll admit it’s not something we’d thought of, I can assure you that it’s something we’ll now be looking very closely at.”

“And what fucking good is that going to do, huh?” Ken complains, batting Sing’s pen away and, as though he suddenly can’t sit still, fidgeting in his chair. “So Schuldig now has a few more mind fuck games up his sleeve, big freakin’ whoop. He’s also, in case you’ve forgotten this… oh… I don’t know… *small* fact of life, got fucking Nagi batting for his team again too. Hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if that American prick, Crawford, wasn’t slithering around somewhere in it all as well.” 

“Crawford is in Japan, yes,” Sing replies, turning, as always, a blind eye to Ken’s outburst. “We have footage of him and Schuldig arriving at Narita from London four days ago. Going on the time frame we’ve been able to deduce, it would appear that they were in London around the time Kettleman was murdered.”

“Gee… And what a big fucking surprise that is,” Ken drawls, putting his still full Coke can down in favor of picking up and twisting the one he’d emptied earlier. “Hear that guys? Looks like Chloé’s little freak out the other night was justified after all.”

“Kill the attitude, Hidaka,” Aya mutters flatly, picking up a cough lozenge out of the box and throwing it at Ken’s head. “We’re here to ensure we’re all up to date, not to hear you bitch and feel sorry for yourself.”

“Feel sorry for myself?” Ken echoes, ducking the projectile lozenge and glowering at Aya. “At least I’m not fucking sitting here looking as though I’ve been dragged off my death bed. In fact, *why* are you here, Aya? Do you want the rest of us to get what you’ve got too?”

“Wanting to save Sing from beginning to sound like a broken record,” I interject, pushing aside my now cold coffee and wishing like hell I had a cigarette, “Ken, just shut the fuck up, okay?”

“Who asked you?” Ken snarls, turning on me and, for a second, looking as though he’d like to deck me one. “This is between me and Aya.”

“Right now I’m thinking it’s between you and the rest of the world, but, hey, that could just be me,” I sigh, looking through Ken and nodding at Singapura. “Sing, if you’d care to continue…”

“As I was saying,” Sing states, giving a curt nod, “Crawford is indeed in Japan. As with the others however, we have no idea as to his actual whereabouts. Nor have we been able to ascertain any of their reasons behind their recent… carefully staged events. While, yes, it’s hideously clear that both Weiss and Krypton Brand are being targeted, it’s safe to say that no one knows why this happens to be the case. Like all the other teams that fell, if they wanted you dead then, as I’m sure you all realize, you would be.”

“Speaking of other teams,” Aya murmurs, glancing at Sing, his expression one of cautious hope. “Have you heard anything from Crashers?”

“Nothing,” Singapura replies, shaking her head and smiling grimly at Aya. “But, and I’m sure you’ll agree with this, that’s not necessarily a bad thing. They could be alive and, following protocol, pursuing their own lines of inquiry without wanting to run the risk of being found out by getting in contact with Kritiker. The motel they were last known to be using as a base *was* firebombed but no bodies matching their general descriptions were pulled from the rubble which leads me to believe they’re still out there.”

“I hope you’re right,” Aya whispers, clamping his hand over his mouth as he starts to cough.

“I’m quietly confident that I am,” Sing responds, waiting for Aya to finish coughing before continuing. “Now, seeing as I doubt anyone would disagree that Aya needs to get back to bed, I’m going to try and wrap this up as quickly as possible. So… Let’s get to it. We know that Crawford, Schuldig, and Nagi are up to their eyeballs in what’s been happening. We also know that the majority of Kritiker’s active agents, along with various other teams around the world, were taken out around the same time Omi was being abducted from his office. Most were blown up, with car bombs being the most popular method, but a few were attacked by masked gangs. Korat was able to draw an infinity symbol on the wall before dying and reports have been filtering in about a new gang muscling in on yakuza territory who wear the symbol either marked somewhere into their clothing or as an earring or pendant. Unfortunately the reports we’ve received so far have been sketchy at best and it’s an angle we’re still pursuing.”

“The black poppies embedded in Kettleman’s eyes had an infinity symbol punched in one of their petals too,” Chloé murmurs, finally looking up from his tea and frowning. “An ankh, an inverted cross, and an infinity symbol…”

“Infinity being, in a sense, yet another take on eternity,” Free states, sharing a look with Chloé. “Eternity, in turn, pointing to…”

“Ewigkeit,” Ken groans, his expression truly an award winning one of repugnance. “Oh God. Don’t tell me that Schwarz plus the dregs of Kimura’s slimeball organization equal… Infinity?”

“Ewigkeit… Rising from the ashes…” Chloé muses. “Let’s face it, it ties in with the pretentious use of the phoenix imagery in the warehouse.”

“And the use of the poppies,” Aya adds hoarsely. “Remembrance Day… The symbolism of remembering those who have fallen…”

“So Ewigkeit have somehow… risen from the ashes… joined forces with Schwarz of all freakin’ things… and are now getting their jollies from embroiling us all in an elaborate plan for revenge?” Ken mutters with a dry, mirthless laugh. “Fan-fucking-tastic. All we need is some lunatic dressing up as Kimura and the freak show would be complete.”

“Let’s just say that we’re on to something here,” Chloé murmurs, slipping his hand under the table and, I suspect, closing it around Aya’s knee in a -- ‘it’s okay and you’re not to worry about it’ -- soothing gesture. “But… Well, it still makes no sense. Or, to be more specific, no sense in terms of being of any *immediate* use to us. Even if Ewigkeit and Schwarz have joined forces to form Infinity, that still doesn’t give us anything in relation to Omi’s whereabouts or, for that matter, why they’re putting so much effort into making us jump through hoops. Excuse me for perhaps not being as imaginative as I could be, but wouldn’t it be far more logical to simply kill us and be done with it?”

“And you claim to have an affinity with cats,” Ken mutters, making a ‘tsking’ sound under his breath. “Why kill, even if it *is* your aim, outright when you can play and torture to your heart’s content, all the time safe in the knowledge that, because you’re bigger and running the game, you can put an end to it any old time you desire? Think about it. They’re playing a carefully orchestrated game of cat and mouse with us and the fact we’re in Tokyo probably just means we’ve caught scent of the cheese and are now circling the final trap.”

“Nice analogy,” Singapura replies, putting her pen down and looking up from the notes she’d been taking. “What’s more, I think there’s a good chance you may all be on to something too. Revenge, as we all know, can be an incredibly powerful motivating factor and, having been beaten so thoroughly in the past, both Schwarz and Ewigkeit clearly have scores they’d like to settle. If nothing else, not really having contemplated the Ewigkeit angle before, it’s definitely something new to look into in far more detail. In fact, unless anyone’s got a question they want to ask, I think I may head back to Turk and we’ll see what we can dig up.”

“I’ve got a question,” Ken states, pushing his chair back and standing up. “And that’s what’s the deal with that two-timing piece of shit, Nagi, huh? I can’t say I ever trusted the little freak, but Omi did and… and he repays him by returning to Schwarz? Hell, even I never expected he’d sink that low.”

“While I appreciate it doesn’t seem that way, Nagi’s yet another victim in this, as Ken calls it, game of cat and mouse,” Sing responds sadly. “I really should have said something sooner, but…”

“What do you fucking mean Nagi’s a victim?” Ken interrupts with a snort of disbelief, clutching the back of the chair with both hands and looking as though he’s only just controlling the urge to either shake it or pick it up and throw it. “He betrayed Omi’s trust in him and… Fuck! You saw him on the surveillance footage, playing with his stupid fucking poppies and looking smug. He… He was supposed to be on our side!”

“And he was,” Singapura replies, watching Ken warily, “until Schwarz destroyed his trust in Kritiker and, in one nauseatingly easy step, left him feeling as though they were the only ones to ever do right by him. Now, before you fly off the handle again, do you remember Tot?”

“Schrient’s bunny-girl?” Ken mutters, glancing at me before sighing at the blank expression I just *know* is stretched across my face and looking across at Aya. “I thought she bit it when Musafumi’s lab went up in a ball of flame.”

“That’s what I thought too,” Aya adds, following Ken’s lead and sighing as he looks over at me. “Regardless of the fact that I’m sure you’re about to tell us that we’re wrong and she didn’t die, what does Tot have to do with anything anyway?” 

“You’re right, I *am* going to tell you that she didn’t die at Musafumi’s,” Sing responds, her gaze still fixed firmly on Ken. “I’m also going to tell you that she and Nagi were…”

“If you say lovers I’m going to puke,” Ken interrupts, miming poking his finger down his throat. “I mean… Eeeew… The mere thought of those two getting groiny is enough to put you off the idea of sex for life. He’s bad enough, but her? My God. I feel like a pedophile just *thinking* about it.”

“Then allow me to suggest you *don’t* think about it,” Chloé sighs, giving Ken an unimpressed look before giving his full attention to Sing. “Singapura, you were saying…”

“What I was saying was that Nagi and Tot were friends,” Singapura replies, glancing at her watch and grimacing. “Good friends. *Close* friends. Whether or not they were actually… groiny… with each other isn’t something I can say. I don’t *think* they were but, really, it being none of my business either way, it’s not something I’ve ever wasted time thinking about.”

“So freak-boy and bunny-girl were bosom buddies,” Ken drawls, roughly pushing his chair in and taking a step back from the table. “What of it though? Unless you’re going to tell me she’s the mastermind, something which I very much doubt, behind all of this, where’s your warm and fuzzy tale leading?”

“It’s leading to justifying Nagi’s return to Schwarz,” Sing responds, reaching down into the bag at her feet and retrieving her smokes. Placing them on the table, she looks at the packet longingly before, with a resigned sigh, continuing. “As part of Nagi’s… defection… to Kritiker, he wanted the promise of a safe environment for Tot. Without the rest of Schrient backing her up and egging her on she struck us as a harmless enough proposition and, wanting Nagi on our side at any cost, we agreed to his request. For all that it matters now, it worked too. She was no trouble and whatever exactly it was that they shared made them both happy.”

“And?” Ken prompts, leaning against the wall and folding his arms across his chest. “Forgive me for appearing dense, but I still don’t know where this is leading.”

“Tot was murdered last week,” Sing states flatly, staring down at her cigarettes, her eyes glistening with what look to be unshed tears. “Not only is she dead but she was murdered while under Kritiker protection and there was a white cross painted on her body to make it look like the work of Weiss.”

“But Weiss have never left… calling cards,” Aya murmurs, looking puzzled. “Besides, *anyone* can paint a white cross.”

“And perhaps Nagi would have been able to come to that conclusion himself if not for his grief and the return to the scene of his old… friends,” Sing explains, scowling. “His old friends who just conveniently happened to be there to offer him both a shoulder to cry on and a few theories of their own. Hurting as badly as he was, he didn’t stand a chance. Going on the assumption that Schwarz were behind Tot’s murder, they weakened Nagi’s defenses and proceeded to exploit him for their own gains. I’m not saying he’s any less of an enemy than the others, but at the same time I have to confess to feeling sorry for him as, really, he’s a victim too.”

“Fuck Nagi!” Ken all but snarls, thumping the wall for emphasis. “So he lost his little play-thing, boo-fucking-hoo. That still doesn’t justify his behavior.”

“Why doesn’t it justify his behavior?” Aya replies mildly, sitting up, with obvious effort, straighter in his chair and glowering across at Ken with what looks to be contempt in his eyes. “Some could argue that you’re behaving like a complete know-it-all, obnoxious prick for the very same reasons. I mean, *you’ve* lost access to your old play-thing and God knows you’re not taking it very well.”

“How… dare… you…” Ken grinds out, anger making his face flush red. “Just… Fuck you, Aya! I don’t care if you’re sick or not, you’re still a bastard and…” Trailing off, Ken shakes his head and stalks towards the door. “I’ve fucking had enough of this,” he adds, wrenching the door open and storming out of the room.

“Perhaps I had better go after him and ensure that he does not do something foolhardy,” Free comments, glancing at Singapura and waiting for her nod of approval before standing up and slipping silently through the door.

“Idiot,” Aya mutters, coughing as he pushes his chair back and stands up. “If he’d pull his head in for a moment he’d see for himself that there’s a good chance he would have acted no differently than Nagi.”

“And if you’d pull *your* head in for a second you’d realize that picking a fight with Ken is in no one’s best interests,” Chloé replies, climbing out of his chair and smiling at me. “Yohji? Do you want to see to it that Mr Tact And Grace here makes it back to bed safely or are you content to leave him to me?”

“*More* than content to leave him to you,” I reply, not wanting to see Aya’s response -- if he even gives one, that is -- to my response and studiously staring down at the tabletop. “Hell, not wanting him to turn his cold-inspired ire in my direction, you can have him with my blessings.”

“Like I need *either* of you looking after me,” Aya retorts, limping towards the door and making it as far as the end of the table before a coughing fit sees him holding onto the back of a chair in order to remain upright.

“You were saying?” Chloé murmurs, placing his arm around Aya’s waist and, after gently pulling him away from the chair, guiding him out of the room. “Singapura, thank you for coming to speak to us as I’m sure we all know more than we did an hour ago. If I do not see you before you leave, I look forward to our next information session and can only hope it goes far more smoothly than this one did.”

“Hope springs eternal and flies in the face of history, huh?” Sing responds, getting a smoke out her packet and standing up. “So, Yohji, what about it? You as ready for one of these as I am?”

“Quite possibly more so,” I reply, getting to my feet and following Chloé and Aya out of the conference room. Aya glances over his shoulder at me but I avoid meeting his eyes and, quickening my step, all but run through the living room to the patio. Snatching up a smoke and lighting it, I take a long drag and indulge in the pointless pursuit of willing myself calm.

“Ken’s right, isn’t he?” Sing murmurs, stepping out onto the patio and, joining me, using my lighter to light her cigarette. “About Aya getting on a little *too* well with Chloé, I mean,” she clarifies when I shrug and look at her blankly. “I’m not saying it’s a *bad* thing or anything as it’s good to see him so obviously comfortable with someone new, but… Well, what about you, Yohji, how do you feel about it?” 

“They’re very close,” I mutter noncommittally, moving away from Singapura and, coming to a stop at the edge of the patio, gazing out into the garden.

“They’re very close,” Singapura repeats as she walks over to join me. “Is that all you’ve got to say? Hey, I know it’s none of my business, but, I don’t know, it all just strikes me as a bit odd.”

“Odd or not, it’s really all I’ve got to say on the subject,” I reply, taking another drag on my cigarette and shrugging. “Sorry.”

“Are you okay, Yohji?” Sing queries, stepping off the patio and positioning herself directly in front of me. “You were so quiet in the conference room that there were times when I honestly forgot you were even there. And, well, that’s not like you at all. Is it because of what happened…”

“It’s got nothing to do with that,” I interrupt, using my free hand to sweep my hair back and staring at the sky over Sing’s head. “It’s just…” Pausing, I blink back the angry, *stupid* tears I can feel welling in my eyes and, sidestepping Singapura, start to walk towards the bridge.

“The reason I was so quiet,” I continue softly, hanging my head and talking more to myself than to Sing, “is because I had nothing to say. And the reason I had nothing to say is because I don’t remember any of it. Not Schwarz, not Schrient, not Ewigkeit, not any of it. I… I just… I shouldn’t even be here.”

There. I’ve said it.

Given that I’ve got nothing to add, nothing to even offer other than -- arguably -- muscle, I just shouldn’t be here.

=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=


	5. Chapter 5

~ Aya ~ 

Waking to a weight *on* the bed with me as opposed to *in* it, I roll over groggily and grope along the mattress until my hand comes in contact with folds of thick, soft velvet.

Ah. Chloé. That’s good. 

I can handle Chloé. Unlike Ken he doesn’t lie in wait to force feed me ‘special’ (as in ‘I’ve forgiven you for your horrid behavior in the conference room by slaving over a hot stove for you, now, eat it or I’m going to pour it down your throat’) chicken soup. Nor, for that matter, does he think it’s perfectly acceptable to do a tarot layout on the mattress next to me while I sleep and then get narky when, still asleep, I kick the bedding away, subsequently throwing it into total disarray. Honestly. I don’t know what Free was thinking. While I can deal with -- largely because my sense of smell isn’t so much shot to hell at the moment as it is nonexistent -- the ‘healing’ incense he’s insisting burn constantly in the corner of the room, I fail to see why I should be at all apologetic for upsetting his tarot spread when, really, he should have known better than to do it on the bed in the first place.

Besides, it’s not like I *asked* for the never ending parade of well meaning babysitters to hover and keep me company. I’ve got a cold. I’m not -- contrary, I’m sure, to the opinion of some -- dying. Not being able to recall the last time I was this sick, I might at times, when the coughing is so bad that I can barely breathe, feel as though I’m on the way out, but when it all boils down to it I know that I’m not, that my health will return so long as I’m patient and don’t over exert myself. 

Over exert myself… Ha! Like I’m going to be allowed to let that happen any time soon.

With the three mother hens I’ve got monitoring my every move it’s nothing short of a miracle that I’m even able to go to the bathroom by myself. Between Ken and his chicken soup, Free and his herbal remedies, and Chloé and his strict regime of vitamins and painkillers, my cold doesn’t really stand a chance. The same though, it has to be said, pretty much goes for me. I’ve snapped, thrown pillows, sulked, swore, and generally behaved like an obnoxious pain in the ass and, instead of washing their hands of me and leaving me to my own -- sick and petulant -- devices, they all just smile understandingly and continue to go about their business as though I haven’t even opened my mouth.

I can’t say I fully comprehend why they’re putting up with my unbecoming behavior -- and, no, just because I know I’m doing it doesn’t, unfortunately, mean I possess the prerequisite willpower at the moment to stop it -- but, while I may not exactly be showing it, I’m definitely grateful for the care and patience they’re showing me. Even if it is just so I’m fit enough to join -- whenever it comes -- the fight, I truly appreciate what everyone’s doing for me and, yeah, know that I’m lucky to be surrounded by such… wonderful people. 

Yohji though, I’m not currently understanding at all. While he does his… ‘hovering’… duty as much as the others, every time I wake to find him in the room the look on his face tells me that he’s only there because he *has* to be or because it’s what’s *expected* of him. For reasons he hasn’t seen fit to share, he didn’t even sleep with me last night and, when I’m up to it, I’m going to have to tell him in no uncertain terms that waking up to Ken grinning at me is *not* good for either my health or temper. In fact, it’s downright disconcerting.

Unlike the others, who have no qualms about either sharing the bed with me or using it -- or me, even -- as a table, Yohji simply sits on the chair and *stares* at me. Once, although I foolishly didn’t let on at the time, I woke up to the sight of silent tears streaming down his face. When I asked him about it later in the day though he told me that I must have been dreaming; that, not having any cause to, he certainly hadn’t been crying. 

I’ve tried, during my all too brief moments of lucid consciousness -- as opposed to simply being awake and coughing, and, yes, there’s a huge difference between the two, trust me -- to get him to talk to me but he always just brushes me off, tells me that things are just ‘peachy’ and that the only person I need to be concerned about is myself. I don’t believe him, but what can I do? If he won’t talk to me he won’t talk to me. 

”I know you’re awake,” Chloé comments as, placing his hand over mine, he gives it a light squeeze, “so I may as well ask how you’re feeling.”

“Just point me in the direction of Schuldig and I’ll take him on, not a problem,” I reply drily, coughing as, with considerable effort, I pull myself up into a sitting position.

“Hmm… Your sense of humor, such as it is, appears to be improving,” Chloé responds, lowering his book and peering at me closely. “You’re also looking slightly less flushed than you did earlier which, in turn, leads me to hope you’ve turned the corner and are now finally on the road to recovery.”

“Hooray for me,” I mutter, grabbing a cough lozenge from the bedside table and popping it into my mouth. “Given that I’m sick of a diet of Ken’s chicken soup and these… *allegedly*… blackcurrant flavored cough drops, all I can say is that I hope you’re right.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t be too harsh on the lozenges,” Chloé murmurs, smiling as he slips a bookmark between the pages of his novel and drops it on his lap. “They turn your tongue the most delightful shade of purple. If I was some sort of drunken poet I could possibly even wax lyrical about how the color reminds me of your eyes…”

“If my sense of humor is improving with my health, what’s that say about yours, that you’re suffering something terminal?” I retort, wanting to laugh but coughing again instead. “Seriously, Chloé. That was just deplorable. Almost enough, in fact, to earn you a kick out of here.” 

“One, you couldn’t kick the head off a dandelion at the moment,” Chloé replies as, placing his book on the bedside table, he carefully rearranges the bedding around me. “And, two, if I leave here I’ll be reduced to having to sleep on the sofa… Now, Aya, could you *really* do that to me?”

“No,” I mutter, suppressing a fond smile. Damn! How he constantly gets around me is anyone’s guess but, somehow, he always does. It’s like a *gift* or something. “But that’s only because you’re right and I *am* too weak to live up to any threats at the moment. Give me a couple of days however and, just watch it, I won’t be taking *any* of your crap. Tell me though, if I *did* somehow manage to evict you, why would you have to sleep on the sofa? What’s wrong with your room?”

“Yohji’s in there,” Chloé responds, looking away and pulling something out of the pocket of his robe that he keeps hidden in the palm of his hand. “He said that he couldn’t sleep and didn’t want to wake you with his tossing and turning so, well, I said he could have my room. I… I hope you don’t mind.”

Keep me awake with his tossing and turning when I’m drugged up on cold and flu tablets that could knock out a horse? As lame excuses go, I think I’ve now heard just about everything.

“I don’t mind that you’re here,” I murmur, leaning back on the pillows and frowning down at the comforter. “Nor do I… really… mind that Yohji isn’t. What I do mind however is that there’s clearly something bothering him that he won’t talk to me about.” Pausing, I quickly decide that there’s nothing to be lost by traveling the ‘nothing ventured, nothing gained’ route and turn to face Chloé. “Has he mentioned anything to you about what’s on his mind at the moment?”

“No, nothing,” Chloé replies quickly, his expression a carefully schooled mask of concern. “Perhaps you’re just imagining it. Don’t take this the wrong way or anything, but you haven’t exactly been with it for the last couple of days and, well, Yohji seems fine to me.”

“Tell me I’ve been hallucinating and I don’t care what it takes, I *will* kick you out of here,” I mutter, scowling. “No games, Chloé, I’m not in the mood. If you know what’s bothering Yohji I’d appreciate it if you’d just tell me.”

“*If* there’s something bothering him, which I’m not saying there is, then, not having asked him, I can’t really tell you what it might be,” Chloé responds slowly, making a point of meeting my eyes and shrugging. “Sorry. I accept that it sounds uncaring but, to tell you the truth, with you down like this we’ve been too busy to really take that much notice of each other.”

“I didn’t come down in the last shower, you know,” I reply, knowing that I’d be wasting my energy on glaring at Chloé and settling for folding my arms across my chest instead. “You know why Yohji’s behaving… odd… and you’re trying to fob me off.”

“And your cold is making you paranoid,” Chloé sighs, shaking his head and tightening his fist around whatever it is he’s holding in his hand. “Honestly, Aya. If you’re that worried about Yohji I’ll go and get him for you and you can ask him yourself what’s bothering him.”

“If I didn’t know it’d run the risk of waking him, I’d take you up on that offer too,” I murmur, not feeling at all placated by Chloé’s -- ‘non’-- responses and wishing, just for a nice change, that I was surrounded by open, garrulous people who could no more keep something to themselves than fly. “You’re not being very helpful, I hope you realize. I’m worried about Yohji… on *top* of everything else, I might add… and all I’m asking is…”

“And what I’m telling you is that it’s not something I can answer for you,” Chloé interrupts, with another sigh. “Without wanting to inadvertently dump a guilt trip on you or anything, while you’ve been playing Sleeping Beauty in here, the rest of us have actually been flat out. If we’re not hunting through computer records for links to Infinity then we’re out on the streets trying to hunt down our very own live member for questioning. While the latter mightn’t sound that difficult, allow me to inform you that it’s proving to be near on impossible. I don’t know whether anyone’s told you this or not, but the one Ken had cornered last night blew the top of his head off in preference to being captured which, I’m sure you’ll agree, is not exactly what you’d call a good sign.”

“Scared of us, or scared of Infinity?” I murmur, reluctantly accepting that Chloé’s successfully managed to deflect my attention away from Yohji and, unfolding my arms, resting my hands flat on my lap. “And you’re right, if life holds that little meaning to Infinity’s hired muscle then it’s not a good sign at all. What about the rest of your research though, has it managed to come up with anything?”

“Not really, no,” Chloé replies with a snort of annoyance. “We’ve got Yuki and Michel working on it too and they haven’t been able to come up with anything either. It’s as though the Infinity hierarchy have sprung fully formed from nothing while their lackeys, the goons shaking up the yakuza and making a noise around the place, are just common thugs. Well, that’s all they’re currently giving any indication of being anyway. Prostitution, drugs, arms trafficking, you know, same old, same old. Free and Ken are out on the town now but I’m not exactly holding my breath that they’re going to be any more successful than we were last night. They *might* be, if they sneak around in the shadows but, going on Ken’s punch-happy attitude to life at the moment, I honestly don’t think Free will be able to control him.”

“Ken needs to be on either a leash or a hefty dose of Prozac,” I mutter, coughing hoarsely. “Why aren’t you the one out with Free anyway?”

“Although it didn’t achieve anything, I was out with Yohji earlier,” Chloé responds, pulling a face. “We staked out this particularly charming den of would-be-if-only-they-could-be Hell’s Angels because Singapura had received information that Infinity had the bikers’ amphetamine lab on their ‘shopping list’ but didn’t see hide nor hair of them. We *did* see some… stunning… prostitutes though and I can now tell you that when bikers decide to hold a pissing contest they mean it… ah… literally… So, well, it’s not as though the night was an *entire* waste or anything like that.”

“Depends on your definition of waste,” I murmur, slumping further back against the pillows. “If it was educational for you though, then, hey, I’m happy for you.”

“Not to worry,” Chloé smiles, placing his free hand on my forehead to check my temperature. “Given that I think you’re over the worst of it and should be able to start moving around tomorrow, you’ll soon be out there suffering with the rest of us.”

“The fact that I view this as a positive just goes to show how much I despise being sick,” I reply as Chloé lightly strokes my cheek before taking his hand away from my face and placing it back in his lap. “Pissing bikers, suicidal goons, Ken acting like an un-house-trained puppy, hell, bring ‘em all on.”

“What about Schwarz?” Chloé queries quietly, staring down at his hands. “Are you as eager to face them too?”

“While I wouldn’t use the word ‘eager’ myself, I’m prepared to face them when the time comes,” I murmur, shrugging. “Hating them and not knowing what they’re up to can’t come into it.”

“Fair point, I suppose,” Chloé replies dully. “One, I also suppose, that I’m going to have to subscribe to. But… Please… No lectures. I’m here of my own free will and there’s nothing you can say or do to change that fact.”

Glancing at Chloé, in his black velvet robe and looking every inch the fictional vampire that Yohji likes to tease him about, I’m suddenly struck by just how glad, how… relieved… I am that he’s actually here. Not just here as in Tokyo with the rest of us, but *here*… with me. Chloé, he…

When I’m with him I feel…

… Confused.

Very, very confused.

Trying to replace these admittedly odd thoughts with other -- Yohji, *your* Yohji, the one whose name you wear carved into your flesh is in the next room, *not*, in case you’ve forgotten, on the other side of the world like he used to be -- less confusing ones and failing, I search frantically for a way to move the conversation on and, in desperation, settle for reaching out and wafting my hand over Chloé’s. “So, given that you wouldn’t answer my questions about Yohji,” I state lightly, “are you going to be more obliging in relation to telling me what it is you’re hiding from me in your hand?”

“I’m not hiding anything from you. I just…” Trailing off, Chloé shakes his head and holds his hand out towards me. “Of course you can see it,” he adds, turning his hand over and uncurling his fingers to display an exquisite strand of rosary beads resting on his palm. “I apologize if you thought I was deliberately keeping them out of your sight as it certainly wasn’t my intention. I… I suppose I just forgot I was even holding them.”

“I didn’t know you believed in the rosary,” I murmur, slightly taken aback by the sight of the beads and carefully lifting them out of Chloé’s hand. Like his rose adorned velvet robe, I’ve never seen anything quite like them before and, holding the strand up to the light, I admire both the artistic design and craftsmanship that went into their creation. Instead of normal beads, the strand is made up of small, intricately carved roses made out of rose quartz and the highly polished cross, which is etched with Celtic designs, appears to be made out of either platinum or white gold. My skepticism towards what they represent aside, they’re nothing short of beautiful and I can’t help but wonder if they were given to Chloé by the mysterious robe giver, Faith.

“If you mean do I believe that saying five thousand Hail Mary’s and three thousand Our Father’s is going to be adequate penance for my sins and save my soul, then the answer is no,” Chloé replies, reaching out and tracing his finger down the middle of the cross. “I don’t believe in it in the traditional manner at all. What I do, however, believe in is what it represents to me.”

“And that would be what exactly?” I prompt, gathering the strand up in my hand and, just like Chloé had been, simply holding it tightly. “I’m thinking, given how perfect they are and how they were clearly designed for you, that it must be something special.”

“They represent faith,” Chloé whispers, placing his hand over mine and pressing gently down on it until I can feel the roses embedding themselves into the soft flesh of my palm. “Not faith in the religious sense and not, before you jump in with the obvious question, specifically in relation to my friend who, as I’m sure you’ve made a point of remembering, just happens to be called Faith either. Just… faith. Faith in yourself, in your team, in both the greater goal and good… Faith that, no matter what, you’ll make it through, that there are things in this world that are definitely worth fighting for.”

Digesting Chloé’s response and finding, to my surprise, that I can’t really fight his logic -- faith not in a mythical deity but in yourself and those around you -- I nod slowly. “Seeing as I can’t argue with any of that,” I murmur, making no move to pull my hand away even though there’s a voice in the back of my head whispering that I should, “is there any particular reason why I’ve never seen the beads before?”

“They were in the pocket of my robe and, like the robe, I haven’t felt any urge to seek out their… comfort… for a long time,” Chloé responds, following my silent lead and giving no indication of wanting to move his hand from around mine. “They’re both inanimate objects, and I *know* that I probably shouldn’t be clinging to the past they represent, but…”

“You don’t have to explain,” I interrupt softly, lifting up my left arm and, shaking my wrist, causing the charms on my bracelet to jingle. “Not having the, I suppose, far more common decrepit stuffed toy left over from our childhood to turn to, we improvise. Logic tells me that it’s pathetic, that we’re pitiful for even thinking we need something to cling to, but, look, I’d be a hypocrite if I got all holier than thou over you.”

“I was hoping you’d find it,” Chloé smiles, lifting his hand away from mine only to close it around the bracelet. “If Yuki hadn’t been keeping such a close eye on my every movement -- oh, and thanks for setting my very own watch dog on me, by the way -- I would have broke the rules and phoned you while you were still in London to casually suggest you bring it with you.”

“Forgive me,” I murmur, suddenly disgusted at myself for not having thanked Chloé yet for his additions to the charm bracelet. “Although I decided on the plane that I’m not going to take it off until all of this is over, I haven’t even said thank you…”

“Corny though it sounds, seeing you wearing it was thanks enough,” Chloé responds, giving my wrist a squeeze before releasing it and resting his hand on the bed between us. “Besides, given that I’d convinced myself that you’d probably try and garrote me with it if you were tetchy over the fact I’d been through your drawer, I think things have turned out well all round.”

“Still… I want to thank you for it,” I reply, loosening my hold on the rosary beads and letting them fall onto my lap. “Both the charms and… sentiment… are perfect. I’m just sorry that I have no way to repay you.”

“I didn’t do it because I wanted you indebted to me,” Chloé murmurs, avoiding my gaze and picking at invisible lint on the comforter. “I did it because I wanted a small part of Krypton Brand entwined with Weiss…”

“And I appreciate it,” I state quietly, gently elbowing Chloé in the side, “but if you think I’m the same as Ken, that I’d drop everything to regain the past, you’re mistaken. Weiss is a part of me, yes, but London is my home now and I have every intention of returning there once Omi is safe and this is all over.” 

My mini-lecture delivered, I pick the rosary beads up and hold them out to Chloé. “Here. Take these back and focus more on what they represent than on wasting your time second guessing where my loyalty lies. We’re here to save Omi, not reform Weiss.”

“You’re right,” Chloé replies, glancing at me and, making no move to take the beads from my hand, smiling faintly. “Sorry. I think I’m just suffering from cat withdrawals or something and don’t even know what it is I’m saying. As for the rosary beads though, why don’t you keep a hold on them for me?”

“Why?” I query suspiciously, frowning first at the beads and then at Chloé. “As I was telling you only a moment ago, I’ve got my own incredibly futile security blanket in the form of the charm bracelet and, well, hardly need yours as well.”

“I’d still like you to borrow them,” Chloé murmurs, shrugging as, once again, he looks down so as not to look me in the eye. “You don’t have to wear them or even carry them with you, if you don’t want to, but I’d just be… happier… if you’d look after them for me for a while.”

“Why?” I repeat stubbornly. “Chloé… If you know something that you’re not telling me, give it up now and spill. Has Free read something in the cards?”

“No. More… what he wasn’t able to read…” Chloé sighs, folding my fingers around the rosary beads before pushing my hand back into my lap. “That spread you accidentally destroyed, he says that he has his doubts about it, that it appeared to be indicating that darkness was coming…”

“It’s not my fault he chose a really stupid spot to lay them out on,” I complain, annoyed both at Free’s momentary lapse of reason *and*, irrationally, myself for having moved and ruined it. “I don’t suppose he can be any more precise in his doubts, can he?”

“A half completed spread is close to useless,” Chloé replies, shaking his head. “The closest he can get to being sure about anything is that, if it’s going to happen, it’s going to be in the next few days and that we need to be even more vigilant than we have been. So, please, Aya… Humor me and keep the beads.” 

“Fine,” I murmur, accepting that, futile though it may be, placating Chloé wouldn’t kill me and, backing my words up with actions, placing the beads next to my watch on the bedside table. “To put your mind at rest, I’ll borrow them… Happy now?”

“Happier, if nothing else,” Chloé responds, patting the mattress and -- oh-so-subtly -- mock yawning. “Now, as much as I’ve enjoyed our little chat, how about settling down and going back to sleep, huh? I think your fever has lifted, and you’re clearly a lot better than you were last time you woke up, but, really, you still need to rest.”

“In case it’s escaped your attention, I’ve done nothing *but* rest,” I protest, giving Chloé a long suffering look before lying flat on the mattress and pulling the comforter up to my chin. “But, again, fine… You win.”

“Aah… Is there any taste sweeter than that of success?” Chloé retorts with a smirk as he picks his book up from the bedside table. “Before you say it, yes, I *know* I may as well enjoy it while it lasts.”

“You took the words right out of my mouth,” I murmur, closing my eyes and making myself comfortable. While I don’t feel particularly tired nor do I exactly feel as though I want to get out of bed either and -- not that I’m going to tell Chloé this -- I can actually see the logic in trying to return to sleep. My head and body are not aching anywhere near as badly as they were earlier in the day and, although my nose is still blocked and I can still feel a considerable tickle in my throat, I *do* nonetheless feel better than I have since Singapura brought me here and don’t want to do anything that could run the risk of a relapse.

And, if that means staying in bed for a few more hours then, well, so be it.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Throwing the comforter back, I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and, yawning, slowly catalogue my various aches and pains. Sixty or so hours of all but hibernating in bed having apparently done wonders for my body, not only is my sprained ankle feeling as good as new, but the general muscle ache that had left me feeling like an arthritic eighty year old seems to have gone as well. Better yet, while my throat is still scratchy I can now breathe easier and -- hallelujah -- the ever-present headache seems to have followed the lead of the muscle ache and finally fucked off.

Hmm… Mind you, my nasal passages having cleared means I can now smell the lingering odor of Free’s incense and, yes, well… Why anyone would want to I don’t know, but it appears as though it’s entirely possible to embed the scent of wet horses, dirty socks, disinfectant and rotten seaweed into an incense stick. How Chloé or any of the others were able to remain in the room with it is nothing short of astonishing. There are times -- oddly enough, right now being one of them -- where I honestly think Free has to have no sense of smell. Or, if he does, that there simply has to be something incredibly wrong with it.

While -- thank God for small mercies -- I’m only encountering the scent hours after the incense has burnt out, it’s already making me think fondly of the aroma of stale nicotine and artificial freesias that first greeted me when I got here and, almost wishing my nose was still blocked, I hope Free hasn’t been burning it throughout the rest of the house. If he has, then, and to hell with running the risk of my cold returning with a vengeance, the first thing I’m doing when I venture out of here is opening all the doors and windows. I’m not saying it hasn’t -- *possibly* -- helped, but, seriously, enough is just enough.

Standing up, I stretch languidly, making the most of once again being able to move freely. For the very first time since my cold presented itself I have the room to myself and I very much plan to make the most of it. While concerned tinged curiosity makes me wonder -- why I’ve finally been abandoned -- where everyone is, I don’t particularly want to go and investigate in case some kind soul decides to try and chase me back to bed. Well, not yet anyway. Not until I’m showered and dressed at least. That way, even if they do give me grief I’ll be able to show that, as I’m well enough to wash myself and dress, I’m well enough to be up and about. And, having *so* had enough of lying flat on my back for the time being, if anyone wants to argue with me then, hey, good luck to them.

I’m up, and, end of story, I’m *staying* up.

There being no one around to tell me to wear them, I -- rebel -- don’t bother putting my robe and slippers on and, after retrieving a set of clean clothes from my suitcase, slip into the bathroom. Shutting the door behind me, I place my clothes on the edge of the vanity unit and turn on the shower. Once the water temperature is to my liking I strip off, throwing my pajamas in a pile near the toilet, and step into the shower cubicle. The luxuriously warm water feeling like heaven on my clammy skin, I position myself directly under the showerhead and, seeing as I’m in no great rush, just let it beat down on me. 

Yohji’s… peculiar… behavior translating into him barely able to tolerate being in the room with me, and -- last night’s discussion aside -- Chloé never having been around while I was with it enough to remain out of bed for any amount of time longer than a trip to the toilet, I haven’t showered since I got here and, well, I both feel and, I’m sure, smell like it. Ken, and I have no idea what was going through his head at the time, offered at some point to help me shower but I was so mortified by the very thought that the shock brought on a coughing fit to beat all coughing fits and by the time I’d calmed down he’d already forgotten his offer and was engrossed in a soccer magazine. Which, really, I’ve got to say, was just as well.

Not knowing how long the hot water lasts for here, I force myself to grab the soap and slowly wash myself. The gun barrel shaped bruise on my right side stands out lividly on my pale skin and running the soap over it I discover that it *is* actually as tender as it looks. Not wanting to dwell on how it happened to get there though, I push the bruise out of my mind and continue washing. After finishing with my body I wash my hair with Yohji’s sickly sweet smelling shampoo and, with no small degree of reluctance, turn the water off and step out of the shower.

Grabbing a towel, I dry myself off before getting dressed and gravitating over to the vanity unit. My desire to run the risk of laying myself open for a lecture being nonexistent, I use Yohji’s somewhat odd -- as in it would look perfectly at home on the set of some dodgy sci-fi movie -- hairdryer to thoroughly dry my hair before haphazardly running some mousse through it and calling it styled. I then clean my teeth and, more out of habit than necessity, shave. Ablutions attended to, I back away from the vanity unit and critically look over my reflection in the mirror on the wall above it.

Hmm… Okay, so with my too pale skin and shadows the color of asphalt under my eyes, perhaps dressing in all black wasn’t exactly the best idea I’ve ever had. In fact, all I need is a red satin lined cloak and a set of false fangs and I’d look as though I was either eleven months early or two weeks too late for Halloween. Lacking both the interest and energy required to change though, I decide that my outfit will do -- so what if I look like a red haired version of Dracula? -- and return to the bedroom.

Wanting to make the bed but not knowing where to find clean -- an imperative, if ever there was one -- sheets, I settle for stripping all the bedding off and piling it up near the door before sinking down on the edge of the mattress to pull on my boots. My head spins a little as I do their zips up but, just like I did the bruise earlier, I forcefully ignore it and continue about my business. Snatching my watch up from the bedside table and putting it on, I see that it’s nearly one in the afternoon and sigh.

Shit. I’ve as good as wasted another day. Six days have passed since Omi was abducted from his office and, as valid as my excuses might be, it pains me that I haven’t been able to do a damn thing for him. Pains me immensely.

Standing up, I decide the time has come to brave the well meaning ‘talks’ on not over exerting myself that I’m sure to be hit with simply for being so bold as to be out of bed and am about to head over to the door when, out of the corner of my eye, I see Chloé’s rosary beads lying on the bedside table. Although I don’t -- for fear of inadvertently damaging them somehow -- really want to carry them with me, my promise to Chloé holds too much weight to ignore and, with another sigh, I pick them up and carefully place them in my pocket. That done, I walk across to the door and, opening it, step out into the corridor.

Finding the house almost eerily silent, I wonder where everyone could be and wander in the direction of the living room. Nearing it, the sound of a blood curdling ‘HAIYAA!’ coming from somewhere near the conference room tells me that Ken’s not only around and taking his frustrations out on an inanimate object but also that the house -- or so I hope anyway and he’s not just beating on some defenseless piece of furniture -- appears to have its own gym.

Knowing that Ken is simultaneously around *and* safely engrossed in an activity that’ll keep him clear of me for a while yet reassuring me slightly, I carry on into the living room and, through the glass sliding doors, find Yohji sitting at the patio’s outdoor setting. A lit cigarette in his hand, he stares blankly out into the garden, his expression a mask of nothingness and his shoulders slumped. He looks, not to put a too fine a point on it or anything, as though he’s got the entire weight of the world on his shoulders and then some. 

Not quite knowing how to approach him, I hesitate over going out onto the patio and, remaining out of sight, just watch him.

Miserable. Dejected. Worried.

Why?

Yes, Omi’s still missing and it’s now definite that it’s Schwarz that we’re up against, but, really, what’s that to Yohji? He can’t remember either of them and the rest of us, his friends that he’s lived with for the past five months, are all around him. Admittedly, I’ve been spending a fair bit of time with Chloé but, going on his behavior -- all but handing me over to Chloé with both a look and a sigh of relief -- I’d have to argue that it’s always been with his blessings. If it hasn’t then, well, he’s been doing a great job of pretending otherwise.

So… What’s wrong then? If it’s not me, Omi, or Schwarz, what is it? Is it being back in Tokyo again, does being here make him regret his decision to follow me to London? And, if so, why? Why now? Has it only just dawned on him that what we do is dangerous and that we live with the risk that every day may be our last hanging constantly over our heads?

My stomach grumbling loudly in the still of the living room, I’m suddenly reminded of what it’s like to feel hungry and, telling myself I’ll think more clearly after having had something to eat, I turn around and head for the kitchen. Entering it, I spy a massive cooking pot, I suspect containing what’s left of Ken’s ‘wonder cure’ chicken soup, sitting on the stove and, regardless of the fact I’ve got the room to myself and there’s no one around to see it, pull a face. While it may even have been tasty -- my taste buds following the lead of my sense of smell and having gone on strike for the past few days -- I’ve had more than enough of it for the time being and, after a quick forage through the refrigerator and cupboards heralds nothing of great interest, settle for the good old fallback of toast.

Popping two slices of bread into the toaster, I make myself a cup of tea while I wait for them to cook and, spotting a newspaper on the table, carry my drink over to have a look. Placing my tea on the table, I glance down at the paper and, upon realizing that it’s today’s and that anything could have happened in the world while I’ve been sick as, oddly, no one brought a newspaper into my room, sit down in order to start flicking through it.

World news being almost comfortingly predictable -- Al Quaeda are still mouthing off, SARS has reared its ugly head again in Southern China, a royal wedding was held in some country deluded enough to still be paying for an outdated monarchy, the Greenpeace-donating moral majority are still thwarting the Japanese right (the journalist’s words, not mine. Having tasted the meat once I can live the rest of my life without ever having it again) to hunt, and subsequently *eat*, whales -- I’m about to give up on the paper in favor of checking on my toast when I see it.

‘Nurse’s Body Released To Family For Burial.’

Curious, although at first I can’t really pinpoint why, I remain sitting and read on. A quarter of the way through the article I feel both my appetite leave me and my temper rise -- why the *fuck* wasn’t I told about this earlier? -- and then, a bit further down the page, it hits me.

The murdered nurse is Asuka.

Yohji’s wife.

And, going on the offensive placement of poppies… in… her corpse, she was murdered by Schwarz.

‘… As earlier reports have indicated, local nurse, Itou Asuka, was brutally raped and murdered six days ago. Police still have no leads into this horrific crime. An unidentifiable source from the police unit in charge of investigating the nurse’s murder has told this reporter that, given the somewhat Occultist use of symbols on the body -- that, as confirmed by the autopsy, were carved into her flesh while she was still alive -- they are looking into possible links to the Black Arts and local Satanic groups. As this paper exclusively reported the day after Mrs Itou’s body was discovered in the parking lot of her apartment block, a number of red cardboard poppies (commemorating a Western tradition known as ‘Remembrance Day’) were found both around her corpse and embedded between her legs…

… Sadly, it has just come to light that this is the second tragedy to befall the Itou family this year. In June, Mrs Itou’s husband was hit by a car that then exploded. Both Mr Itou and the car’s driver were killed instantly…’

Disgusted at what I’m reading -- not to mention incredibly pissed at not having been told about it earlier -- I push the paper away and, foolishly taking a deep breath in an attempt to calm down, start to cough.

No. That’s not quite right. I don’t just start to cough, I start to *bark*. Loudly. Like a fucking performing seal. 

Forcing myself to stand up, I wrap one arm around my waist and use my other hand to cover my mouth in an attempt to both stem and, to an extent, silence the coughing. My throat burning and my head feeling as though there’s nothing in it other than a sign advertising ‘Space For Let’, I’m idly contemplating the logic behind my all consuming desire to be out of bed when, no doubt roused by my over-excited performing seal act, Yohji materializes in the doorway.

“What are you doing…” His gaze traveling from where I’m standing doubled over to the open paper on the table, Yohji’s lecture dies on his lips as, paling, he takes a hurried step back from the door. “Aya…”

“Don’t… ‘Aya’… me,” I gasp, my need to get to the bottom of what’s going on trampling all over my body’s need to cough. “Why didn’t you tell me, huh? You’ve known about this since I’ve been here and you never once fucking thought of telling me?”

“I…”

Shaking his head, Yohji takes another, stumbled, step away from the door before turning on his heels and bolting.

“Hey! Come back here!” I shout hoarsely, taking off after him as I can feel my mood worsening by the second. Keeping something of this magnitude from me is bad enough, but to actually cut and run? Hell. That’s just not on. Whether Yohji likes it or not -- and, just call me perceptive, I’m thinking he *doesn’t* -- he’s been sprung now and that’s just all there is to it. Having been kept in the dark -- and, yes, when I’ve finished with Yohji I’m going to chew the others out as well -- for too long as it is, there’s no way I’m letting it drop now.

“Yohji!” I snap, following him into the living room. “Just… Give it up and talk to me.”

“There’s nothing to say,” Yohji murmurs, pausing in the doorway that leads out onto the patio and giving me a beseeching look. “You… You read it all for yourself in the paper.”

“I read that Schwarz murdered your wife,” I reply, walking further into the room and -- casually -- leaning against the back of the armchair. Although, my coughing fit having left me feeling winded, I’d really like to sit down, I force myself to remain standing, not wanting to give any indication of weakness. “What I didn’t read however is why no one told me sooner. Yohji? Perhaps you could, oh, I don’t know, enlighten me?”

“No one told you because I asked them not to,” Yohji sighs, running his fingers through his hair and scuffing his foot along the carpet. “Okay? Now, if that’s all you wanted to know, I’m…”

“If that’s all I wanted to know?” I echo, my voice heavy with the sense of astonishment I’m feeling. “Excuse me? Ignoring the fact that you coerced the others into remaining silent for a moment, you… Christ, Yohji! I don’t even know where to start. No… I know. Don’t you trust me or something, is that it?”

“Of course I fucking trust you!” Yohji retorts, his eyes flashing as, cornered, some of my anger begins to rub off on him. “Honestly, Aya, and I’m sorry if this comes as news to you, not everything freakin’ involves you directly. I… I just didn’t want to tell you, okay? Maybe I didn’t want to talk about it. Or maybe I just didn’t want to worry you while you were sick. Hell, given your reaction, maybe I just didn’t want you on my fucking back!”

“The only reason I’m on your, and I quote, fucking back now is because, to hell with you Yohji, you *kept* something from me!” I respond flatly, my sense of anger-fuelled betrayal rapidly heading towards boiling point. “Actually, to be more precise, you not only kept something personal from me but you also, through silencing the others, kept something *relevant* to the mission from me. I’m sorry about Asuka, but…”

“Are you?” Yohji interrupts, stepping fully into the room and leaning his back up against the wall. “Are you genuinely sorry about her death or are you just saying it because you know it’s expected of you? I’m sorry for asking, but, well, you know, it took you a couple of minutes to get to it and…”

“Of course I’m sorry!” I all but snarl, cutting Yohji off and shooting him a hurt, withering look. “Even if she hadn’t meant something to you she still didn’t deserve to die like that and… Just, fuck you, Yohji. How *dare* you say something like that to me. We’re supposed to be friends and team mates…”

And… lovers. And lovers are meant to be there for each other. Always. Through thick and through thin. They’re supposed to comfort and… protect.

Protect from both pain and worry. And, albeit misguidedly, Yohji was trying to protect me not only from more worry but also his heartache as well.

Damn!

His reasons making a… degree… of harebrained sense aside, I’m still tetchy. Slightly less so than I was a moment ago, granted, but still annoyed.

“I thought I was doing the right thing by you,” Yohji murmurs, hanging his head and staring longingly at his fingers as though he wished they were holding a cigarette, his anger, like mine, already dampened. “You… You were sick, something had already happened to you since arriving in Tokyo, and… and I just thought you had enough on your plate. Besides, as is increasingly becoming par for the fucking course, there wasn’t anything you could have done…”

“I…” Sighing, I clutch my fingers around the thick padding of the back of the armchair. “I could have tried to comfort you…”

“It was all you could do to attend Sing’s meeting the other morning,” Yohji replies with no hint of recrimination in his voice whatsoever. “Please, Aya, and I don’t want you to take this the wrong way or anything, but you’re not to try and make this about you. It’s because I love you that I tried to keep it from you, that’s all. It’s nothing personal, and God knows I don’t mean it as an affront or anything, but, really, you just didn’t need to know.”

“You’ve been avoiding me,” I mutter matter-of-factly, shaking my head. “Every time I woke up you either weren’t there or you were staring at me as though you were afraid to get any closer. Shit, Yohji… I can… sort of… see the logic in your behavior, but I’ve got to say that I think you went about it all wrong. Yes, I appreciate you thinking about me, but at the same time I really think I had a right to know. As much as no one might want to think about it, her death *is* directly linked to Schwarz and why it is we’re here in Tokyo.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Yohji responds, lifting eyes bright with unshed tears to meet mine. “This… It’s all my…”

The sound of a high pitched beeping sound coming, I think, from the kitchen drowning out the rest of Yohji’s response, I look at him in surprise and shrug. “What do you…”

“What the hell are you doing up?” Ken exclaims, bounding into the room and forcefully jabbing his finger in my direction. Dressed in track pants and a sweat stained -- well I never, he’s branching out from Adidas -- Nike t-shirt, it’s obvious that Ken’s just come from a workout and, taking offence to the finger he’s pointing at me, it has to be said that I wish he was *still* working out. “You’re supposed to be in bed, *not* fucking setting fire to the place!”

“What are you talking about?” I query sourly, giving Ken as nasty a look as I can muster. Just because my mood towards Yohji is improving does not, not by any stretch of the imagination, mean that I’m feeling up to dealing with Ken. “I’m not setting fire to anything.”

“No? Then why’s the smoke alarm screaming its damn head off then?” Ken retorts, shaking his head and rolling his eyes in a ‘do I have to do *everything* around here?’ sort of way as he jogs through the living room. “Perhaps, I don’t know, you’ve left something to burn in the kitchen?”

“Oh…” Shit. My toast. Ooops. “Sorry… I… ah… got sidetracked.”

“Well, continue on then with getting sidetracked,” Ken mutters, glancing over his shoulder as he slips through door. “I mean, I’ll take care of this racket, not a problem. You two just go back to fighting or having an across room conversation or whatever the hell it is you’re doing.”

Returning my gaze to Yohji, who appears to have used the diversion of the smoke alarm and Ken’s arrival to retrieve his smokes as he’s now standing just outside the door, lit cigarette in hand, I wait until the alarm has stopped its raucous screeching before trying to pick up where we’d left off. “So, where were we?” I prompt, not exactly succeeding in my attempt to sound casual. 

“I can’t remember,” Yohji replies, bringing his smoke to his lips and shrugging dismissively. “I think we’d stopped trying to bite each other’s heads off, but I could be wrong.”

“I don’t want to bite your head off,” I murmur, dredging up a faint smile to show Yohji that I actually mean it. “The others though, for keeping your secret, well, they may not be so lucky. Chloé in particular. I asked him last night whether anything was bothering you and he told me that he couldn’t answer because he’d never asked you.”

“He wasn’t lying either,” Yohji replies, cautiously returning my smile, “as, no, he hadn’t asked me. He knew, yeah, but not through asking me.”

“You’re both too smart for your own good,” I respond, looking around the room. “Actually, come to think of it, where is Chloé? I’m assuming he must be out with Free, but…”

“Actually…” Suddenly looking agitated, Yohji drops his smoke to the ground and, after quickly grinding the butt out with his heel, hurries inside. “Hey! Ken!” he shouts, glancing anxiously at his watch. “Ken!”

“You bellowed?” Ken replies coolly, meandering slowly back into the living room, a can of Coke held loosely in his hand. “Okay… Now that I’m here, how can I help?”

“Please tell me you’ve either heard from or seen Chloé recently,” Yohji murmurs with what sounds suspiciously like a pleading tone to his voice. “Ken… He’s been gone for…”

“Would someone care to tell me what’s going on here?” I interrupt, a sinking, sickening feeling forming in the pit of my stomach. “Yohji? Ken?”

“He’s been gone for… Shit!” Ken replies slowly, ignoring me and, like Yohji, glancing at his watch. “Fuck! He’s been gone for over three hours. Damn fool! What does he think he’s playing at, huh?”

“Maybe he’s not playing at anything,” Yohji responds, sharing a worried look with Ken. “Maybe… something’s happened to him…”

Oh God no… Something can’t have happened to Chloé. He… He was with me when I went to sleep. It was him who told me about Free’s fears and how we had to be extra careful. He… No! I refuse to believe he would have done something foolish that would have put him at risk.

“Something will happen to the pair of you if you don’t stop ignoring me and tell me just what the fuck it is you’re going on about,” I mutter through clenched teeth, glaring first at Yohji and then at Ken. “Now… and I’ll try to make this as simple as possible… where’s Chloé?”

“We… We don’t know,” Yohji replies, shrugging helplessly as something tells him he’d better come over and try and put his arm around me.

“Not good enough!” I retort, dodging his arm and moving closer to the door. “I’m taking it that you two were the last to see him so, come on, talk to me. Unless you want me to believe that someone just strolled in here and caused him to disappear, you’ve got to be able to tell me *something*.”

“He wanted something from the 7-Eleven down the road,” Ken mutters, a flicker of concern finally making its way onto his face. “And, well, it’s kinda been over three hours since he left to get it.”

“And you’ve only just noticed?” I seethe, the anger I’d been feeling towards Yohji only a few short moments ago returning in a rush. “My God! You’re both pathetic. What’s more, given that I’m taking it that Free didn’t go with him, why didn’t one of you idiots accompany him, huh? We’re supposed to be looking after each other, not just waving goodbye and wishing them the fucking best!”

“Free’s out with Sing,” Yohji murmurs softly, his expression pained, “and… And Chloé didn’t ask either of us if we wanted to go with him…”

“He shouldn’t have fucking *had* to have asked,” I shout, storming over to the door and shoving Ken out of the way. “It’s… Christ! I… I just don’t believe this,” I continue agitatedly as both Ken and Yohji follow me towards the bedroom. “You *know* that we’re under constant threat and *still* you let him go off by himself. Now, is someone going to tell me where this 7-Eleven is, or am I just supposed to find it for myself?”

“Huh?” Ken grunts in surprise. “News flash, Aya, you ain’t going anywhere. Sure, you may be stomping around in here, but, well, you’ve been pretty sick and I think…”

“And if you think I trust either of you to look for him after this, you’ve got another thing coming,” I interrupt contemptuously, walking into the bedroom and immediately beginning to look around for a coat. Unable to find mine, I settle for snatching up Chloé’s, his new one that I’d been wearing as a robe, and pull it on. Although I’d been the last to wear it, the coat still smells of -- roses -- Chloé and the familiar scent merely helps to harden my resolve to find him.

“I’ll take him to the 7-Eleven,” Yohji mutters, giving Ken a warning look. “It’s not that far and… ah… he could probably do with the fresh air.”

“All I need is directions,” I reply, grabbing the cough lozenges from the bedside table and slipping them into the coat’s pocket. My fingers brushing across something made of soft leather in the pocket, I pull out a pair of gloves and, after only a moment’s hesitation, put them on. “And a weapon, preferably a gun.”

“Ken, go and get Aya a gun while I get my smokes and coat,” Yohji states, already walking out the door. “Aya, meet me at the front door. Whether you actually believe me or not, I’m as worried as you are about Chloé and want to help.”

“Fine,” I retort, grateful that Yohji’s going to come with me but feeling no compulsion to show it. “Come on you, move. And, once you’ve done that, get in contact with Free and Singapura. I want them both back here *now*,” I add, making shooing gestures at Ken as I start to move out of the room.

“Yes, boss,” Ken mutters, bowing grandly before, his professionalism finally kicking in, spinning around and taking off down the corridor at a run.

Choosing, as I suspect we’re all becoming experts at, not to think about the gravity of the matter at hand, I push both it and the thought of how dithery my body is feeling to the back of my mind and make my way towards the front door. I’ve barely worked out how to unlock its myriad deadlocks when, looking grim, both Yohji and Ken join me. Handing me my requested gun, which I note is a Glock nine-millimeter and not my usual Beretta, Ken opens his mouth in anticipation of saying something before -- no doubt wisely -- deciding against it and simply stepping back.

“You ready?” Yohji queries, opening the door and walking through it as I check that the safety’s on the Glock before placing it in my pocket.

“I’ve got all that I was waiting for,” I reply, giving Ken one last sour look before following Yohji through the door. “Now, this 7-Eleven, is it far?”

“A ten minute walk, tops,” Yohji replies, looking down at the gravel that lines the driveway as I get in step with him. “It… It’s not far at all.” Pausing, he jams his hands in the pocket of his three-quarter length black leather coat and sighs. “Look, Aya, about Chloé, I’m…”

“Save it,” I mutter, cutting him off. “You’re sorry, I’m sorry, we’re all, with perhaps the exception of Ken who probably thinks he had it coming, fucking sorry. Right now though, all I care about is finding him. Apologies and blame and whatever else can wait until he’s safe.”

“If…”

“Don’t! Don’t say it, don’t even… think it!”

Great. I’m already sounding hysterical. For my next trick I may as well just throw a foot stamping, pouting tantrum.

“You’re right, sorry,” Yohji murmurs contritely, entering a code into the electronic pad that controls the front gate and, anything having to be better than looking at me, watching it glide smoothly open. “We’ll find him.”

“We’d better,” I retort, stepping out on to the street and waiting for Yohji to indicate which direction we need to take. When he points to the left, I nod curtly and start to walk down the street.

Chloé’s disappearance putting Asuka’s murder and Yohji’s refusal to talk to me about it on the backburner, we walk in silence, Yohji lagging back a few steps behind me. Not having anything I want to say to him, this suits me fine and, focusing my attention on the deserted suburban street, don’t even bother glancing over my shoulder to ensure he’s still keeping up with me.

Although the day is cold enough to make me thankful for wearing both Chloé’s coat and gloves, the sun is shining brightly and there’s very little wind which, to me, says we really shouldn’t be the only ones out on the street. Coldness aside, it’s a nice day, meaning there should be people working in gardens or out walking their dogs. But no. Despite the street being lined with expensive and clearly well cared for houses, it’s as though Yohji and I are the only two people alive. Not even any cars drive down the street and, although there’s numerous trees, I can’t hear the sound of any birds singing. 

All in all, it’s just… creepy. 

“Ah… What exactly are we looking for exactly?” Yohji asks hesitantly as, another block up the street, the 7-Eleven looms into view.

“Skid marks on the road, any sign of a struggle,” I sigh, forcing my complaining body to move just that little bit faster. “If you thought about it you’d know what we were looking for. Blood… Pieces of fabric from what Chloé was wearing…”

“Of course,” Yohji replies quietly. “Sorry. I should have known.”

“Whatever,” I mutter. “When we reach the 7-Eleven I want you to have a look around the outside while I go in and ask the clerk whether he’s seen him. Do you think you can manage that?”

“I can try,” Yohji murmurs, not lowering himself to my general feelings of narkiness and, to his credit, just letting me go.

Reaching the 7-Eleven, I leave Yohji outside and step through the sliding doors into the neon lit, burnt hotdog scented store. A bored looking clerk in his early twenties gives me a disinterested look as I walk over to him and then, clearly oblivious to both my foul mood and who it is he’s dealing with, has the nerve to ignore me when I’m standing directly in front of him.

“You dead or just rude?” I murmur, masking my annoyance with a polite smile as the young man jerks his head up to glare at me. “Oh! Wonderful. You’re not dead. I *am* relieved.”

“Can I *help* you?” the clerk queries, looking up and, taking in both my pallor and all black outfit, quite literally physically recoiling. “Um… Are you okay, man? You’re lookin’, if you don’t mind me sayin’, a little… peaky…”

“I’m looking for a friend of mine,” I reply, glossing over his concern for my well being, “and I was wondering if you’d seen him. He’s slightly taller than I am and has very light blond hair.”

“Nope, haven’t seen him,” the clerk mutters, shaking his head and giving me a hard to read, speculative look.

“Are you sure?”

“Look, man, if he’s as blond as you’re sayin’ he is, I’d remember him, no problem,” he replies, returning his gaze to the motorbike magazine he’s got open on the counter in front of him. “We don’t get many blonds around here since the Americans moved their consulate from up the street, so, yeah, if he’d been here he would have stood out like sore thumb.”

“Well, thanks for your help,” I respond, common sense dictating that -- being too instinctively dense to be worth Schwarz’s time and effort -- the clerk is telling the truth and, with a shrug, starting to walk out of the store.

No signs on the street… He never made it to his destination…

Shit. Not good. This is so not good.

Chloé, where are you?

Hardly paying attention to where I’m going because my mind is full of thoughts that, really, I’d rather not be having, I walk outside and very nearly collide with a teenage boy wearing a school uniform. Grabbing my shoulder to help me keep my balance, he stares at my face, his eyes widening in what could either be disbelief, or, alternatively, delight as his mouth gapes open in apparent surprise.

“Hey, Fuji,” he calls out, letting go of my shoulder and excitedly gesturing his friend over. “Check it out. It’s him.”

“No way,” Fuji retorts, leaving his satchel by the wall of the 7-Eleven and strolling over. “Oh my God, fuck me!” he continues brightly, looking me up and down and shaking his head. “You’re right. It *is* him. Dressed like that… hell, *dressed*… I hardly recognized him to begin with. The hair and eyes though, they’re a dead give away.”

Not entirely sure I want to know what these two fools are blithering on about, I take a step around them and look across the parking lot for Yohji. Finding him walking around a car towards me, I find myself releasing a relieved breath that I hadn’t even been really aware that I’d been holding and start to walk towards him. I’ve barely taken a couple of steps when the first school boy, the one I’d almost collided with, begins to laugh, a malicious, cackling sort of laugh that clearly says that the source of his amusement has to be something unpleasant.

“Man, I’m sorry, but I’ve just got gotta say this,” he snickers loudly. “You are *one* sick puppy.”

“And the pair of you need to fuck off home to mummy,” Yohji states coldly, reaching me and flicking his cigarette butt in the direction of the boys. “Now, you heard me. Fuck off!”

“Come on, Shin, let’s get out of here,” Fuji mutters. “We’ve done our bit so what do you say we go spend some of the money, huh?”

Noticing for the first time that Yohji’s holding a yellow A4 envelope under his left arm, I don’t listen to Shin’s response and look at Yohji inquiringly. “Am I correct in assuming those two cretins handed you the envelope?” I query dully, reaching for it.

“You got it in one,” Yohji replies, frowning as he hands over the envelope. “I was walking around the store, as you’d asked, and they just came up to me with the statement that a man with orange hair and a German accent had paid them to ensure it got to me.”

“Do you know what’s in there?” I murmur, looking down at the envelope and, my unease growing by the second, seeing that as it isn’t sealed, that the school boys could have helped themselves to a look at whatever its contents are.

“I was about to have a look when you came out of the shop,” he responds, giving a brief shake of his head. “Do you wanna open it here, or should we wait until we get back to the house?”

“Here,” I mutter, opening the flap on the envelope and pulling out a glossy magazine. “What the…” Trailing off, I look down at the advertisement for -- Gray’s Boutique of Pain -- made to order specialty leather items on the back of the magazine and shrug helplessly. “Yohji…”

“You know, perhaps it would be best if we checked this out in more detail back at the house,” Yohji murmurs, gently closing his hand around my arm. “Come on, Aya, put it back in the envelope and let’s head back.”

“No. Schuldig wants us to see it for a reason and…” Turning the magazine over, what I see on the cover causes me to lose both my train of thought and my carefully strived for composure.

“Oh…”

Dropping the magazine, I slump unceremoniously to my knees as, shock yet again having brought it on, I start to cough.

“Aya! Oh fuck. Come on, Aya,” Yohji implores desperately, crouching down next to me and wrapping his arms around me. “Calm down or take some deep breaths or something. If you keep on like that you’re going to pass out.”

“Just… get the magazine,” I wheeze, digging my hands into Yohji’s shoulders and clinging to him as, his words proving prophetic, it all becomes too much to for me and, still coughing, darkness descends and I slide into oblivion.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“I told you that you weren’t well enough to be gallivanting around the streets,” Ken comments, depositing a cup of tea on the coffee table and giving me a disapproving look. “You never should have…”

“Leave it, Ken,” Yohji commands, sinking down next to me on the sofa and, balancing his cup of coffee on the overstuffed arm, placing his arm around me. “I think he’s been through enough, don’t you?” 

Embarrassed to the point of wanting the ground to open up and swallow me whole as it is, I want to tell Yohji to keep his hands to himself, that I don’t need his comfort, but I remain silent, not sure that I trust myself to speak yet. The magazine that Schuldig gave the boys to give us is lying, back cover up, on the coffee table. Yohji flicked through it while Ken drove us back from the 7-Eleven and I’m sure by now, most likely while I was in the bathroom washing my face, that Ken’s had a good look at it too.

‘In the Doghouse’, a highly specialized S&M magazine for the true connoisseur of sick and perverted kink. A banner on the cover tells anyone deranged enough to be interested that all photos contained within the magazine are real, that not one of them is staged.

The banner is above my name. Fujimiya Ran. My *real* name, the one on my birth certificate.

The one given to me with pride by my parents.

I…

“It’s okay, Aya,” Yohji murmurs, hugging me to him. “I know it looks bad, but you can’t let it get to you.”

I can’t let it get to me? Like hell I can’t let it get to me! It’s all right for Yohji. He’s not the one who has a fourteen page spread all to himself in the current issue of ‘In the Doghouse’.

The cover brags about that too. Fourteen pages. Apparently it’s some sort of record.

Fourteen pages of what Kimura and his cronies did to me three years ago. Fourteen *full color* pages of a hell that still taints my very existence.

Oh. The cover also says that I’m the centerfold. 

I can’t even remember the photographs being taken. But… clearly they were. I thought I remembered everything, but, obviously, I can’t. Unrelenting shame, yes. The bright burst of flash and whir of film, no.

“I’m not letting it get to me,” I mutter defensively, pulling away from Yohji and reaching for my tea. “I’m… It’s fine. If Schuldig thinks he can use… this… to deflect my attention away from the fact that he’s got Chloé then, fuck him, he’s wrong a thousand times over.”

“I don’t really think you should be worrying about Chloé now,” Ken replies, kneeling down next to the coffee table and taking a gulp of his Coke. “In fact…” Pausing, he looks at Yohji. “Should we tell him?”

“Tell me what?” I demand, resting my tea on my lap and shooting first Ken, followed by Yohji, a questioning look. “If you’re keeping secrets from me again I’ll…”

“We have to tell him,” Yohji interrupts wearily, picking his cup up and taking a mouthful of coffee.

Nodding, Ken places his can on the coffee table and sighs. “Free and Sing… I haven’t been able to get in contact with them either. Their mobiles ring out and, although I’ve tried, I can’t trace their sim cards either.”

“So we have to find them as well as Chloé,” I murmur, digesting the news that both Free and Singapura are missing as well with a sort of detached sense of resigned calm. “Fine. Do either of you know what they were meant to be doing today?”

“Not really, no,” Ken replies, frowning at my lack of reaction. “We could always ring Turk or Bengal though as they might know. About Chloé though… Hell. I have no freakin’ idea where to start. If you’re right in your thinking that Schuldig’s got him, he could be anywhere. Going on the bad blood I’ve heard hinted at between them, maybe he’s already…”

“Maybe there’s more to that… magazine… than meets the eye,” Yohji muses, cutting Ken off and, returning his coffee to the arm of the sofa, leaning forward and giving the magazine a tentative prod with his finger. “I don’t know, but, well, doesn’t it strike you all as a bit staged? If we accept that Schuldig knew where to nab Chloé then we’ve also got to accept that he knows where we’re based. Now, think about it, if he’d just wanted to hit Aya with the magazine he could have simply slipped it in our letter box. Again, I don’t really know, but perhaps there just might be something in it that could help us…”

“But why would the bastard want to give us any sort of a clue?” Ken queries sourly, looking at Yohji as though he’d just suggested we call it quits for the day and go on a trip down to Disneyland. “I mean… It makes no sense!” 

“To test us,” I murmur, glancing at the magazine with distaste and, totally unable to help myself, shuddering. “Or maybe to draw us further into his trap. Who knows. I think though there’s a good chance that Yohji could be on to something. Everything else has been so carefully planned that, Ken, I think you’re wrong and it *does* make sense.”

“Sure, it makes sense if you’re certifiably insane and should be locked up in a loony bin somewhere,” Ken mutters, shaking his head adamantly. “But out here in the real world? Come off it. I say the magazine is just meant to kick Aya while he’s down, maybe antagonize the rest of us a little as an added bonus, and that’s it.”

“Antagonize us a *little*?” Yohji echoes, glancing at Ken in wide-eyed disbelief. “A… *little*?”

“Yeah, well, it’s only a magazine,” Ken mumbles, picking his can of Coke up and rolling it between his hands. “And the photos, they were taken years ago. They’re not like, you know…”

“No! I don’t know!” Yohji exclaims, the disbelief in his eyes switching quickly to anger. “For God’s sake, Ken! You saw them. They’re… They’re sick. And… And they list his fucking vital statistics like he’s some sort of… product!”

Product.

I like, although that isn’t really the right word for it, that description. And the reason I like it is because it’s apt. To Kimura, I was merely a product, something to be used and abused whenever he felt like it because, essentially, I was his. He owned me. I was a commodity. An amusement.

Like a Playstation or, I know, one of those beeping cyber pet things. Feed. Water. Fuck. 

And… My vital statistics are included in the magazine? Height, weight, eye and hair color, amongst other, even less relevant and more invasive specifications?

Wonderful.

Oh.

Yohji and Ken are still arguing. Ken, in fact, is even looking slightly apologetic now while Yohji is flushing a particularly rosy red color. I think they’ve both forgotten that I’m even here, that the object, the very *cause*, of their disagreement is still in the same room as them.

“Somebody needs to look through the magazine for possible clues,” I state, cutting Ken… or Yohji… I’d be lying if I said I cared who… off mid heated response and gesturing airily at the table. “Whether there’s anything in it or not, we’ll never know if we never look.”

“So you want someone to volunteer to read the… articles… in the thing in the vain hope of them holding some sort of cryptic freakin’ clue?” Ken mutters. “I know we’re desperate, but, come on… I don’t know about you, but I can live the rest of my life without ever letting it soil my hands again.”

“I wasn’t going to ask you to do it,” I reply, looking down into my tea, quite unable to look anyone in the eye. “I… I want Yohji to do it.”

Well, that is I want him to do it more than I want Ken to. Ken seeing the images once was, to my way of thinking, more than enough. He doesn’t need to see them again. Ever. Yohji doesn’t really need to either. But at least he’s seen it all before and while it doesn’t count for much, it still counts for *something*.

“Any idea of what specifically I should keep an eye out for?” Yohji queries, shrugging his acceptance but making no move to pick up the magazine. “An address? Something… recognizable?”

“I don’t know,” I whisper, wishing I knew the answer, wishing I didn’t feel quite so empty and, like Ken just mentioned, soiled. “Maybe there’ll be something handwritten in it or… or perhaps an obviously out of place advertisement or… I don’t know. It’s a long shot but… But what else have we got?”

“Maybe there’s something in the envelope,” Yohji murmurs hopefully, pushing the magazine further along the table and picking up the yellow envelope it came in. “Ah… It’s not that I *won’t* go through the magazine, more that I’d just really rather not.”

“So you thought you’d clutch at a few straws first,” Ken replies, smiling wanly. “I can’t say that I blame you. How people get off on that filth just escapes me. Uh… Sorry, Aya.”

Sorry? There’s nothing for Ken to apologize for. *I*… didn’t… don’t get off on it either.

But…

Get off. Jerk off. Wank. Masturbate.

Men are going to… get off… while looking at these pictures. They’re going to *fantasize* about me and what they’d like to do to me, what they’d like me to do to *them*. I’m… I’m a centerfold. I’m going to be on dingy walls for dingy men to jerk off to.

I…

I want Chloé. 

I want Chloé to be safe and I want him here with me. Yohji’s a start, a good start, and he saved me once, but it was Chloé who kissed me after Wapping, Chloé who… somehow… understands. Yohji offers… comfort… but right now he’s thinking more of the invisible, nameless and soulless men with their masturbatory fantasies than he is of me. To him, they’re the main source of his agitation. Getting off on what they can’t have, what’s *his* and subsequently -- should be -- out of bounds. I don’t blame him, and I’d probably be the same if our roles were reversed, but his anger and… jealousy… isn’t what I need right now. 

An involuntary moan escaping my lips, I push up hard against the corner of the sofa and blink back tears. “What… ever… it is you’re going to look at first, please, just get on with it,” I murmur, this time -- any old port in a storm -- not pulling away from Yohji as he scoots along the sofa to place his arm around me.

“As we were just discussing,” Yohji replies, giving me an odd look as, placing a business card on my lap, he hugs me to him, “this card was found in the envelope. Didn’t you… ah… hear us?”

“Sorry… Must have zoned out,” I mumble, picking the card up and looking at it intently. “‘Auto Part ‘IS’ Us - Specialist Wreckers of Mitsubishi’s, Nissan’s and Toyota’s’,” I read, glancing across at Ken and shaking my head. “Huh? I don’t get it. What’s a car wreckers on the other side of town got to do with anything?”

“Fucked if we know,” Ken retorts, standing up and stretching. “Although you were clearly off with the fairies, we were just trying to convince ourselves whether it could be the world’s most obvious clue and, you know, this is where Schwarz are holed up…”

“Or it’s where they’ve perhaps taken Chloé,” Yohji adds, prizing my cup of tea out of my hand and placing it on the coffee table. “We just don’t know. It could even be nothing.”

“It’s not nothing,” I mutter, memorizing the address of the wreckers before standing up and letting the card flutter to the floor. “It might be a trap, but it’s not nothing. Everything they’ve done so far has been so carefully thought out and executed and this is no exception. It’s an invitation. One that we can’t say no to.”

“Bullshit we can’t say no to it!” Ken exclaims, giving me another one of his ‘you have *so* got to kidding me’ looks. “For fuck’s sake, Aya! I know you’re feeling antsy because of Chloé and… everything… but, hell! You just said yourself that it’s probably a trap.”

“And if there’s even the slightest chance that we can save Chloé by walking into it, then we have to risk it,” I reply coolly. “He may not be Weiss, Ken, and you might have your own pathetic issues with him, but he’s part of our… *my*… team and I have to go after him. I can’t just sit here while he’s… out there… and, if you thought about it for a second, you’d know that he’d do the same for any of us.”

“You *have* to go after him, huh?” Ken retorts, glowering at me as, unconsciously, his hands ball into fists. “What about Free and Sing though? They’re missing too, but don’t they count? Or… Fuck! Have you forgotten why we’re in Tokyo in the first place? *Hello*! Omi, remember him? He’s missing too.”

“Perhaps Omi’s part of the… ah… party at the wreckers too,” Yohji interjects, coming to stand behind me and closing his hand around my shoulder. “Aya’s right. I think…”

“I don’t need you to fight my battles for me!” I snap, twisting my head around to glare at Yohji for a second before returning my full attention to Ken. “As for you, given that they’re not worth anything, I’d appreciate it if you kept your opinions to yourself. I *know* the others are missing. Free and Singapura I’m not too worried about yet as, for all we know, they could be somewhere that doesn’t allow mobile phones. Omi though… Hell. Six days have passed without so much as a *hint* of a clue. What am I supposed to do, huh? Ask Free, assuming we ever see him again, of course, if he’s perhaps got a crystal ball somewhere that I can consult?”

“This is… *bullshit*, Aya!” Ken shouts, taking a step towards me, his eyes flashing. “What’s more, if you weren’t so caught up in the fact that your… pet cat… is missing, you’d see it for yourself. Yes, I know you’ve been sick, but did you get this worked up about Omi? Hell no. The second Chloé disappears though you’re off your sick bed and champing at the fucking bit to walk into what has to be a trap. What is it with you, huh? Do you have to be sleeping with someone to actually give a fuck?”

That’s it.

No second chances. No hesitation.

Just anger. Sheer, unadulterated fury.

“Shut… *up*!” I hiss, pulling my arm back and, before Yohji can stop me, punching Ken full in the face. The force of my fist colliding with his cheek catching him unawares, Ken stumbles backwards, the blood spilling out of the corner of his mouth standing out lividly against his suddenly very pale skin.

“Did that make you feel better?” Yohji queries cautiously, walking around me to Ken and slinging his arm around his shoulders. Whether this is to comfort him or hold him back isn’t something I care about in the slightest. In fact, adrenaline now pumping through my veins and making me feel the most alive and awake I’ve been in days, I almost wish Ken *would* have a go at me.

Practice makes perfect, after all.

And given what I’m about to head into, God knows I could probably do with the practice.

“You have *no* idea,” I murmur, starting to walk towards the door. “Now, if either of you are caring to join me, be in the garage in ten minutes. If you’re not there by then I’m going without you.”

“Being sick has made him irrational,” Ken mutters bitterly. “He’s going to lead us into a trap and he doesn’t fucking care.”

“You’re wrong there,” Yohji replies, his voice following me as I step out of the room and start down the corridor towards the bedroom. “It’s not just the cold that’s making him irrational and, while he’s choosing an odd way to show it, he cares a lot. Don’t forget either though that traps, well, they *can* be escaped from… Right?”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Taking the brown paper bag emblazoned with the recognizable-the-world-over golden arches from the drive-thru attendant, Yohji smiles his thanks and, with a flourish, dumps it in my lap.

“Dinner is served,” he states, meeting my baleful look with a smirk before putting the car into gear and driving out of the McDonald’s parking lot. “Go on. Eat up while it’s fresh.”

Staring down at the bag as though I half expect it to contain a family of tarantulas -- irate, out for blood, *huge* tarantulas at that -- I give it a tentative poke and sigh. “I told you that I didn’t want this,” I mutter, wrinkling my nose up as the greasy aroma of the food wafts through the car’s interior. “It smells disgusting.”

“And I told you that you have to eat something,” Yohji replies, shrugging. “Now, at the risk of earning myself yet another black mark in your books, either you eat while I drive or I’m going to pull into the first parking space I see and we’re going to sit there until you’ve eaten every last mouthful.”

“I’m beginning to think I’d have been better off going with Ken,” I complain, giving the bag another poke before, with a show of great sufferance, opening it up and peering at its contents. Oh. Yummy. A Big Mac and fries. Just what I *really* feel like at the moment.

“You had your chance,” Yohji responds, taking his hand off the gear stick long enough to reach across and tap lightly on my stomach. “You heard your belly, Aya. It’s hungry even if you’re not.”

“Like that makes a lot of sense,” I retort, pulling out the burger and fries and, after smoothing the bag down flat to use as placemat, placing them back on my lap. “Just because my stomach grumbled doesn’t necessarily mean I have to have something to eat.”

“Am I the only one here experiencing an odd sense of déjà vu?” Yohji queries, cocking his head to one side and giving me a coy look. “I mean, I could have sworn we had this exact conversation not ten minutes ago. No offence, Aya, but are you *sure* you’re as with it as you claim to be?”

There being nothing to be achieved by responding more coherently, I snort noncommittally and, opening up the wrapper surrounding the Big Mac, peel the top off the burger. I then place a layer of fries over the insipid, slimy looking lettuce and replace the top of the bun. This done, all I’ve got to do now is just convince myself to take a bite…

Stupid stomach. Yes, I’d been in the process of making toast before being hit by both the murder of Asuka and Chloé’s disappearance and subsequently forgetting all about it. And, yes, my stomach *did* grumble -- loudly -- fifteen minutes ago. And, hell, okay, maybe there’s *some* sense in Yohji’s logic that I *have* to eat something, but… Yuck. My body’s needs aside, God knows I don’t feel like eating anything. *Especially* not McDonald’s which I’m not exactly what you’d call a fan of even under what passes as normal circumstances.

“Um… What are you doing?” Yohji murmurs, bringing the car to a smooth stop at a red light and sneaking a couple of my fries. “The staring at it as though you’re waiting for inspiration to strike in relation to actually *eating* it I can handle, but the fries in the burger thing? What gives with that?”

“It’s something Yuki does,” I murmur slowly, frowning at my Big Mac and shrugging. “He says it tastes better this way, but I think I only did it because it’ll be quicker to eat.”

“You *think*?” Yohji echoes, helping himself to a few more fries and giving me a puzzled look. “You mean you don’t really know *why* you did it at all?”

“Not really, no,” I reply, shrugging again as I force myself to take a bite of my burger. The taste, what there is of it, being as bad as I imagined it’d be, I all but swallow the mouthful whole and pull a face. “How Yuki and Michel derive pleasure from eating this muck escapes me.”

“Come on, it’s not *that* bad,” Yohji replies, smiling at me through another mouthful of fries. “Besides, if you’re so anti-the-place, what are you doing stepping foot through their door with Yuki and Michel? I’m sure they’re big enough to brave the horrors of the McDonald’s Family Restaurant chain all by themselves and don’t need you to hold their hands.”

“If I’m out with them and that’s where they want to go, I let them,” I murmur, taking another bite of the Big Mac and, all the time maligning my stomach, choking it down. “I know they’d go wherever I wanted to go, but that’s not fair on them. If this… excuse for food is what they enjoy eating then, really, what’s it to me?”

“So you just sit there glowering at the teenage staff while Yuki and Michel eat?” Yohji snickers, polishing off the last of the fries just as the lights finally turn to green. “That’s nice of you.”

“I read the paper, actually,” I mutter, scowling at the burger and wishing, by some miracle, it would turn into sushi. “Besides, I… ah… actually quite like their apple pies.”

“Assuming that hurt you as much to admit as I suspect it did,” Yohji laughs, “I won’t even tease you about it… How’s that for kindness, huh?”

“You’re all heart,” I reply, taking as big a bite of the Big Mac as I can manage and glumly chewing it.

“If you’d said you liked the apple pies I would have got you one,” Yohji responds, shaking his head. “Honestly, Aya. You only had to speak up.”

“I’m eating because I *have* to, not because we’re on some sort of date,” I sigh, eyeing the burger and calculating that I have three mouthfuls to go before it’s all gone. “Now, shut up and let me finish this before it gets cold and even more gross.”

Nodding, Yohji turns his full attention to his driving, his mind, like mine, no doubt a mass of barely tethered fears. 

What are we getting ourselves into? Is it a trap or a wild goose chase? Are the others okay or are they already dead? Am I going to live to see dawn? What are Schwarz planning for us? Is this really going to be the end or is it merely another scheduled stop on the Schwarz tour of hell? Can I do it, can I really fight them like I am now?

The analytical part of me tells me that I’m being foolhardy rushing in like this but, not knowing what else to do, I’m ignoring it. Training dictates that we should wait for backup… for a more detailed layout of the wreckers’ yard… for the cover of night… for a more definite answer in relation to Free and Singapura…

But, fuck it, I can’t wait. And it’s not just because I’m worried about Chloé either. This, even if it does turn out to be nothing, being the first clue we’ve had since arriving in Tokyo, we have to grab it. Trap or not, we really don’t have any other choice. If we hang back and over analyze everything it may be too late. Their planning department having been working overtime in relation to all of this, I’m confident that Schwarz’s invitation in the form of the wreckers’ business card is one that we can’t afford to decline. I’m not happy about it and, yes, I am afraid of what we’re going to find, but, again, we really have no choice *but* to go there.

My burger finally finished, I return both the wrapper and empty fry container to the bag and, folding it all into a neat square, place it on the floor by my katana. Although it tasted remarkably like warm, salt flavored mulch as far as I’m concerned, I have to admit that I feel slightly better for having eaten and silently thank Yohji for having insisted I, basically, just shut the fuck up and eat.

“Asuka…” Yohji murmurs softly, glancing at me as yet another red light causes us to come to a stop. “Her funeral… it’s tomorrow.”

“You’re not going,” I reply matter-of-factly, digging around in the pocket of my jeans for the cough lozenges I know I transferred there from Chloé’s coat when I changed from it into a longer version of Yohji’s black leather one. Although Chloé’s coat is far warmer, I couldn’t, for reasons I chose not to think about at the time and, for that matter, am *still* choosing not to dwell on, bring myself to continue wearing it and decided to put this one on instead. I don’t like it as much, but… nor do I care what happens to it.

“But… She was my wife,” Yohji replies, giving me a hurt look. “I… I have to go. I have to pay my last respects.”

“You’re not going,” I repeat, ferreting out a lozenge and popping it into my mouth not because I can feel a cough coming on but because I want to get rid of the taste of the Big Mac. “I’m sorry, Yohji. I know it sounds harsh, but you can’t. Don’t forget you’re supposed to be dead and that the funeral will be swarming with people who might recognize you.”

“I’ll disguise myself,” Yohji murmurs, the barest hint of a pleading tone entering his voice. “I’ll wear a wig, a hat, dark glasses, the whole lot. By the time I’ve finished you won’t even be able to recognize me.”

“And then the police will pick you up for questioning,” I sigh, hating having to be so harsh to Yohji when it’s clear that he’s hurting but at the same time knowing that I have to be, that, really, it’s in his best interests. “Don’t forget that profilers have come up with this theory that some killers like to attend the funeral of their victims in order to, I don’t know, bathe in the waves of grief they’ve caused or whatever, and that police now stake out such funerals because of this. If you’re there lurking in the bushes I can tell you know that you’ll be pulled in.”

“But… Aya, I… I can’t *not* go,” Yohji replies haltingly, staring down at his lap as the lights change to green and the driver of the car behind us leans heavily on the horn to get us to move. “You… You don’t understand,” he continues, still focused enough to flick the bird in the rear vision mirror before driving across the intersection.

“Of course I understand,” I reply, reaching across and closing my hand around Yohji’s thigh. “But, Yohji, you’ve got to understand too that there’s simply no way you can go to the funeral tomorrow. It’s too risky. When… When this is all over you can go and pay your respects. If you like, I’ll come with you. In fact, I’m sure everyone would like to be there for you.”

“Assuming that one, we make it, and, two, there is still an *everyone*,” Yohji mutters shakily, groping around on the dash for his smokes. “Aya…”

“We’ll all still be here,” I interrupt, banishing my own doubts to the deepest, darkest recess of my mind as, lifting my hand away from his thigh, I retrieve Yohji’s packet of cigarettes. Glossing over my own, vehement, opinions on them for once, I pull a smoke out and light it. “Here. But, my good nature only stretching so far, please wind down your window and don’t blow the smoke in my face.”

“Thanks,” Yohji murmurs, winding down his window before taking the smoke from me and taking a long drag. His whole body visibly relaxing as the first shot of nicotine hits his bloodstream, Yohji gives me a grateful look and, when I return my hand to his thigh, actually manages to dredge up a wan smile.

“I blame myself, you know,” he whispers, hanging his head. “Her death… It’s my fault. It has to be. If I hadn’t have left… If only I’d been there to protect her…”

“It’s not your fault at all,” I reply, shaking my head and tightening my hold on his leg. “Schwarz, I’m sure of it, killed her to get at Weiss, but, seriously, Yohji, you can’t blame yourself. They don’t care that you’d left her. Nor would they not have killed her if you’d still been together and your true past was still nothing but a mystery to you. Schwarz… They would have killed her regardless. You’ve got to believe me that that’s just how they operate. If their objective is to fuck with us then nothing is sacred.”

“It’s still…”

“No! It’s not. Is it your fault that she fell in love with you? If you’re really looking for someone to blame, how about me for opening the door to your past, or perhaps even the ambulance driver who took you to Asuka’s hospital from the Kou Academy? Blame… It’s a futile emotion, one we can’t afford to waste time on.”

“Maybe you’re right,” Yohji murmurs quietly, the dull, pained look in his eyes telling me that he’s only agreeing with me because it’s what I want to hear. “It… It doesn’t matter now anyway. Asuka’s dead and there’s nothing any of us can do to bring her back.”

“I…” Pausing, I decide the time has come to attempt a change in subject and give a slight shrug. “You know, I’m only vaguely sorry about hitting Ken,” I mutter, as far as Yohji’s concerned, apropos of nothing. “I know I shouldn’t have done it but, at the same time, he had it coming. Some of those things he said were just totally out of order.”

“I agree,” Yohji replies, taking a long drag on his smoke and accepting, without either question or argument, my switch in the conversation. “He should have kept his mouth shut. For what it’s worth, I’ve come close to clocking him one a couple of times during the past few days too.”

“At least you managed to control the urge,” I respond drily. “I’ll apologize to him at some stage, I suppose, but only if he’s willing to admit he was out of order with some of his comments. Of course I’m worried about Omi and I resent him implying otherwise.”

“Admit it though, Aya, you’re more concerned about Chloé,” Yohji murmurs, grinding the butt of his smoke out on the ashtray before flicking it out the window. “Now, before you get defensive or… hit me… allow me to say that I feel exactly the same. Omi… is a voice on a phone to me and a face in photographs that I don’t remember, while Chloé… Well, Chloé’s my friend. I may not know him like you do, but I still know him and I want to, you know, *continue* knowing him.”

“I take it you haven’t shared any of this with Ken?” I query slowly, watching Yohji closely and noting how unguarded and… honest… his expression is.

“No,” Yohji confirms, “I haven’t. Not only would it give him a reason to be pissed off with me but it would also no doubt feed his theory that Chloé’s out to get him. I’ve tried, and some times I even thought I was getting somewhere with him, to get him off Chloé’s back, but… I don’t know. I don’t think anyone’s going to be able to get through to him until he knows that Omi’s safe.”

“You’re probably right,” I reply, turning away from Yohji and glancing out the window. It’s coming up to peak hour and the street we’re traveling down is a flurry of activity. School children loiter outside shops, their uniforms in disarray and their hair in wild styles, while women hurry along laden under the weight of shopping bags containing the ingredients for the meal they’ve spent the better part of the day planning. Few men are walking around though as most of them would still be hard at work, earning the money to pay for the rumpled school uniforms and the sake and noodles, and, if they haven’t had their imagination sucked out of them, dreaming of a life free of ties, desks, and computers.

It’s a life so fully removed from mine that simply watching it through the window of our nondescript hire car with its trunk full of weapons makes me feel like a voyeur. I’ll never have to work overtime or worry whether my children have fallen in with the wrong crowd. Nor will I ever be fully apart of the normal, every day scene being played out on the street before me. Tomorrow, all these people will still be here, living their lives and simply getting on with things, while, for me, I could conceivably be being driven towards my final destiny.

Que sera, sera.

Watching an androgynous figure weave through the crowd of normality, aloof and apart in its’ billowing black velvet cape and with its’ large, shiny silver cross hanging over its’ lace frilled shirt, I’m suddenly reminded of Chloé’s rosary beads in my pocket and pull them out.

Holding them up to the window, I once again admire the exquisite craftsmanship that went into making them before, things sliding almost effortlessly into place, turning to face Yohji.

“Faith,” I state firmly, my voice sounding, even to my own ears, slightly distant and disembodied. “Whatever it is we’re about to face, we have to have faith. Faith in each other… Faith that we’ll get through it.”

=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=


	6. Chapter 6

~ Yohji ~

Faith, huh?

So all Aya thinks we need to get through this living hell is faith. 

Faith! Dear -- no pun intended -- God.

I mean… Brilliant. Just freakin’ fantastic. Personally, I’d far prefer a squadron of the meanest, toughest marines or Navy SEALS that the US armed forces have to offer backing us up but, no, not Aya.

Aya’s -- and if this doesn’t give credence to the theory of cough syrup being chock full of hallucinogens then I don’t know what does -- found God… Or faith… Or the White Rabbit…

Or, alternatively, the day’s finally got too much for him and he’s simply -- ‘I’m a little teapot, braying at the moon in the middle of the day’ -- lost it.

Hell. Right now, nothing would surprise me. It just wouldn’t. The current bane of our existence himself, Schuldig, could fall out of the sky and land on the bonnet of the car and I don’t even think I’d blink an eyelid. Nor would that thin membrane of flesh covering my eye twitch even if Aya started muttering Hail Mary’s under his breath.

Me, I’m *beyond* surprise. Over it. Over the rainbow. Gone.

Three strikes -- Aya reading about Asuka’s murder in the paper, Chloé disappearing, the magazine -- and I’m in my own happy little word of calm. I mightn’t have found faith yet, but I’m close, I’m sure of it. Real close. And then, like Aya clearly is, I’ll be ready for anything. For Schwarz, for the hideous proof of what we may be too late to have stopped taking place, for… the end.

Glancing across at Aya, who’s staring down at the rosary beads clutched in his hands as though, like the number forty-two, they contain the answers to life and the entire universe, I realize in a stomach clenching, spine twitching instant that I’m a fucking idiot.

Bang. Just like that. An epiphany when I least needed nor wanted one.

I’m not calm. I’m not over surprise. I’m not ready for anything. I’m…

Afraid. 

I’m afraid for Chloé and the others. I’m even, although in a far more muted sense, a little afraid for myself. Mostly though, I’m afraid for Aya. Although he’s doing one kick ass job of pretending otherwise, he’s not well and there’s just no way he’s up for this. He doesn’t know it, but I saw him gulp down the handful of pills he’s using to keep himself going on in the bedroom before leaving for the garage. I wasn’t supposed to see it, his moment of weakness, and I suspect he’d brazenly deny it if I brought it up, but there’s no taking back the facts that I *did* see it and that he’s running solely on the masking qualities of cold and flu pills. He’s also, and again he doesn’t know this, been a lot sicker than anyone has let on to him. Singapura even had a doctor pay him a visit, that, although the man both took blood and injected him with a hypodermic full of antibiotics, he slept through and, I’m sure of it, to this day knows nothing about. 

According to the doctor’s report on the tests run on Aya’s blood, he had a particularly nasty strain of the -- not so -- common cold that had been cutting a path through the elderly and infirm in parts of both Asia and Europe. His report also stated that it would take him at least a week to fully recover.

A week. Not just two full days in bed but *seven*. Seven relaxing, stress-free days at that.

He… He shouldn’t be *up*, let alone be sitting here being driven towards what is no doubt some sort of elaborate trap that he doesn’t, contrary to his opinion, have the strength to fight.

Faith…

Faith’s going to get him through to the other side. Faith and painkillers and a katana and two guns. Oh, and me and Ken. Can’t forget the two of us. I can’t recall ever having been in real… combat… and Ken’s currently the clawed version of trigger happy, but, hey…

We’re Weiss. And Weiss, regardless of what the personal cost is, always wins.

Always. We always win. Failure is not an option. Walking blindly into a trap is, but not failure.

I…

Swallowing hard, I fumble in my cigarette pack for a smoke and light it with trembling fingers.

I can’t do this!

I can’t lose Aya. I can willingly, sometimes even with a sense of relief, share him with Chloé, but I can’t lose him. While I mightn’t have been able to show it since being here in Tokyo, he means the world to me. For all his temperamental faults and character flaws, he’s my brightest light in an otherwise increasingly sepia colored world. I love the others, and I’ve meant every word I’ve said to him about being worried sick about Chloé, but Aya’s still the one that never fails to do it for me. He’s just…

Nothing. There’s no one word to describe Aya. He’s like nothing -- although there are times when I think Chloé, who’s far more similar to Aya than I think anyone is willing to admit, comes close -- else on earth. 

The fragile uncertainty of our lives being such at the moment though, I’m finding that it’s actually beginning to *hurt* to look at him. Sitting there, his sick-tinged pale skin blanched even paler by the light of the streetlamps, in his black leather coat and with his rosary beads, he just looks so… otherworldly… that’s it hard to believe that he’s *real*, that he’s as human as I am. So beautiful. So delicate.

So easy to hurt.

Aya’s an assassin. A killer who’s killed more people than I’m sure even he’d care to count. While -- my faulty memory striking yet again -- I can’t recall ever having seen him in action, I’ve seen him train and practice enough times to know I never want to get on his wrong side. With a katana in his hand he’s as lethal as he is coldly elegant. One time at the castle I saw him training with Chloé until, their skills both so perfectly matched and honed, they reached the point where I could see that they were simply continuing for the sheer fun of it. Their movements so clean and fluid, it was like they were dancing. It was also, if you like your entertainment with a deadly twist, almost intoxicatingly beautiful. Michel was with me too and, when they’d finished, he couldn’t help but clap. Chloé laughed and bowed at this while Aya just blushed the color of his hair. I don’t know why. Even if they’d only been training to ensure they always had the upper hand in the heat of the -- matter of life and death -- battle, I still thought what I’d just seen was breathtaking. 

So, yeah, Aya’s a killer and he’s far, far tougher than he looks.

But he’s still just a man. A somewhat unique and, in his own way, frail man who loves cats and who can’t sleep unless he’s wearing pajamas. Always black, always silk, and always covering him from neck to wrist to ankle. Albeit in a far more sensual sense, they’re adult sized versions of little-boy pajamas and he wears them because they make him feel comfortable and because they keep him covered. Aya, and I’ve actually got this out of him in as many words, despises being naked. It leaves him feeling vulnerable, even in the sanctuary of his own room, of his own bed, and it brings back hideous memories for him that he’d rather not be reminded of. He’s got an incredible body, one certainly to be proud of, but he doesn’t care and could no more show it off than he could tell me to turn around, that he’s changed his mind about going to the wreckers and simply wants to go home. Aya’s body is, essentially, one hundred percent his domain and he’ll only share it, *any* of it, with who he chooses to.

And this is why, when I think of… that… magazine… I want to scream until my voice cracks and I can scream no more. 

In the broadest, live and let live, whatever floats your boat sense of things, I don’t have a problem with the -- some might say -- sordid world of S&M. Hey. If they’re all fully consenting adults and actually want to get off on pain and debasement then, well, what’s it to me? Seriously, to each their own and all that. So long as it’s legal and doesn’t directly concern me, I could honestly care less what the sexually active world at large gets up to. I don’t even really care about the fact that there’s copious magazines and triple X rated websites that cater to their whims and perversions. Again, if someone wants to perform… kinky fantasies… in front of a lens for the… pleasure… of others, then that’s their business. And, ultimately, that’s what it is - a business. Sex sells. Kink sells. If it can be imagined and posed for then there’s a market for it.

However magnanimous my feelings towards pornography are though, there’s one *constant*, one point of fact I can’t be swayed from, and that’s that everyone involved has to be a willing participant. They can call it artistic freedom or cash-in-hand to pay their landlord or dealer or whatever the hell it takes to get -- it up -- them through it. Again, I don’t really care so long as they’re fully aware what it is they’re getting themselves into.

Choice. It’s all about choice. The possession of, and ability to impart, one’s own opinions, *especially* in relation to one’s own body and life. 

Although it’s not an experience I’m in any great rush to repeat -- preferably *ever* -- the majority of the glossy images I saw during my quick flick through ‘In The Doghouse’ were posed for by professional models. The cover claims that they’re all real, but it’s nothing more than false advertising. There were no pages devoted to happy snaps of ‘Readers’ Slaves’ and, although admitting it leaves an unpleasant aftertaste in my throat, some of the pictures were almost artistic. Good lighting, carefully thought out and placed props, excellent use of shadow. While perhaps not in the league of Mapplethorpe, they still managed to blur the line between artistic expression and plain old pornography. The models though, and this is what leads me to believe they were professionals, just look -- primp and preen and ‘do that to me if you absolutely must’ and pout and… ‘is it over, can we go home now?’ -- bored. I suspect, given that they can clearly take it and don’t have any issues with it, that I’d see some of the same faces staring at me if I walked into a sex shop and bought an issue of any number of different S&M magazines. And, you know what, if it works for them then, yep, you guessed it, I’m happy for them.

Aya though, he doesn’t look bored or as though he’s been through it hundreds of times before. No. He just looks young and bewildered, as though he has absolutely no understanding of what’s happening to him. Unlike the disinterested gaze of the models, his sense of disbelief, of shame, shines through clearly in his eyes and, because of it, he looks *real*. Impossibly beautiful and unattainable, but at the same time undeniably real, a fantasy both realized and… enjoyed by those loitering just outside the reach of the lens.

I couldn’t bring myself to look at the centerfold. Ken did though, I think, just to prove that he *could* make himself do it, and the very next second his fist was slamming into the wall with such force that I’m surprised his knuckles didn’t split from the impact.

I didn’t ask Ken for any details. Nor did I glance at every one of the… fourteen… pages. The other pages, those containing the blasé models, I could look at closely without feeling anything other than a vague sense of either pity or artistic interest, but…

But not the pictures of Aya. The page I looked at, the one that’s now forever imprinted in my brain and that I can still see flash before me if I close my eyes, was enough. Although he’s told me what he endured at the hands of Kimura, I never, not once and not even fleetingly, paused to put images to his tale. Hell. Hearing it from him and *knowing* that he’d had to live through it was enough of a horror to contend with without wanting to, well, *picture* any of it.

And now…

Now the images are spread throughout a magazine that any old perverted Tom, Dick, or Harry can stroll down to their local sex shop to pick up, take home, and jerk off to. They can put Aya up on their wall amongst all the posters of their other favorites, their ‘special friends’, and then, as they stare at him, they can imagine elaborate, twisted fantasies involving his body as they masturbate. Intent on picturing themselves as the one holding the whip, or imagining the sense of power that would come hand in hand with hurting him solely for their own gratification, they’ll ignore the look of anguish in his eyes and the beaten way he holds himself. They won’t even see him as a human being. To them he’ll just be a body, a toy. Or worse, a slave, a… *nobody*. 

And it *sickens* me. Sickens me to the point of wanting to dismiss outright the ‘to each their own’ school of thought and hunting down each and every one of these perverts in order to teach them the error of their ways. I don’t care that they don’t know any better, that to them he’s just a model or a masochist after his fifteen minutes of fame, as to me he’s not only a real person but he’s also my lover. He’s *Aya* and he’s so self conscious about his body that he can’t even bring himself to wear three-quarter length pants in public for Christ’s sake!

He…

He can’t show his ankles yet anyone with a liking to can now buy a magazine that shows everything, that lays him completely bare.

Ken said that Aya very nearly had kittens when he -- his *friend* and who he *trusts* -- offered to help him shower. Although I’d feel safe in betting my life on the fact he would have *wanted* one, his sense of vulnerability would have still kept him from accepting. He’d have been confident that Ken wouldn’t have hurt him, that he wasn’t just wanting to have a ‘perve’, but it still just wouldn’t have been enough. Quite possibly nowhere near enough.

And, again, now his body is anyone’s

“Whatever it is you’re thinking about,” Aya murmurs, reaching across and plucking my smoldering cigarette butt out of my hand, “stop it and concentrate on your driving. I have enough on my own mind without having to worry about you zoning out and driving us up the back of another car to it.”

“I…” 

Damn. Sprung.

Taking my foot slightly off the accelerator, I glance sheepishly at Aya and watch as he stubs the smoke out in the ashtray before looking around for something to wipe his fingers on. While I’d have no qualms about using either my jeans or the car seat, he eventually, with a vaguely put out sigh, settles for cleaning them on the McDonald’s bag at his feet before sitting back and looking across at me.

“I know things are fucked, Yohji,” he continues softly, the scent of blackcurrant from the cough lozenge he’s sucking on filling the car’s interior as he talks. “But you’ve got to remain focused. Ken’s right in that we’re about to walk into a trap and we *have* to be on our toes.”

“The magazine,” I mumble, the words slipping carelessly out of my mouth even as my mind’s telling me all I have to do is nod and agree with Aya. “I… I was thinking about that magazine.”

“Well, *don’t*,” Aya mutters, his eyes flashing with the sense of offence he’s feeling even though the rest of his face remains blandly neutral. “The magazine is of no interest to us and Schuldig’s sadly mistaken if he thought it would have a stronger impact.” Pausing, he shrugs, his gaze sliding down the rosary beads he still holds in his hand. “As Ken said, it was ages ago…”

“But…” Shaking my head, I slap both hands on the steering wheel as a noise that sounds suspiciously like a groan slips out between my lips. “Hell, Aya, how can you be so… dismissive of it, huh? You’re the centerfold of a fucking porno magazine! Men are going to jerk off to those pictures, all the time imagining you on all fours with a collar around your neck while you suck their cock…”

“I’m sorry that that bothers you, Yohji,” Aya replies coolly, a flicker of contempt dancing through his eyes as he lifts his head to glance at me. “I’m also sorry if that is *all* that bothers you about the pictures. If I’d known you were going to be so… offended… by them I would have asked the photographer to leave. Oh. That’s right. I had no say in the matter.”

“Shit!” Suddenly realizing how what I just said could be misconstrued -- ‘oh, the fact that you were repeatedly raped and sexually tortured doesn’t bother me anywhere near as much as the thought of men jerking off over your picture does’ -- I stare out the windscreen and wish, not for the first time, or I suspect the last, that I’d never opened my stupid mouth. “Aya…”

“Just drive, Yohji,” Aya murmurs, the cool tone to his voice having dropped a few degrees to be now hovering just above icy. “I don’t wish to talk about this now.”

“I’m… I’m sorry. Please, Aya, I didn’t mean it like that at all. You… You know I didn’t,” I stammer, knowing I’m pushing my luck by keeping on at the subject but not knowing what else I can do to stop Aya’s sense of indignation deteriorating even further. “Of course that’s not all that bothers me.”

“Good. I’m glad we’ve got that cleared up,” Aya replies, giving me a ‘drop it and drop it *now*’ look as I risk a glance at him. “Hopefully you can now get your mind back on the matter at hand.”

Quickly reaching the conclusion that it’s probably in my own best interests not to reply, I nod and return my full attention to my driving. Although it’s not something I acknowledge with either joy or relief, our destination is drawing ever closer and I’d say we’re now less than ten minutes away. The mundane sameness of suburbia has already begun to give way to factories and car lots full of workers’ cars and soon we’ll be in the -- belly of the beast -- heart of one of Tokyo’s busiest industrial areas.

Although the pessimist in me says that this may be the last chance I ever get to say everything I know that I should to Aya, I remain silent, logic telling me to leave him to his own thoughts. If I’m lucky, if indeed there is a benign deity watching over us, he’ll know that I love him, that nothing will ever change that, without actually having to hear it from me. Sure, I *could* apologize for both giving every appearance of having abandoned him over the past few days and for keeping Asuka’s death from him but, really, there’s no point. If he knows me at all he’ll understand. Just as, assuming we survive tonight, he’ll understand why I’ll be keeping to myself tomorrow around the time of Asuka’s funeral. Just because my head can appreciate the reasons why I can’t be there doesn’t mean to say that my heart does. 

She was my *wife* and whether Aya’s correct in saying Schwarz would have killed her whether I’d joined Krypton Brand or not, I still feel responsible for her death. She died because of me, because of my past and because of my fleeting love. While cold, unarguable logic dictates that I can’t attend her funeral, it still strikes me as wrong, as though I can’t even honor her in death. And, knowing that even in her afterlife I’m failing her, it hurts.

Everything hurts.

“We’re nearly there,” Aya states calmly, returning the rosary beads to his pocket and retrieving his mobile phone from one of the interior pockets of his coat. “As we’d arranged, I’m going to call Ken to confirm that he’s keeping to the schedule.”

“You do that,” I murmur, keeping one hand on the steering wheel while I use the other to snatch a smoke out of the packet on the dash and light it. “Tell him I hope he’s had time to get his affairs in order.”

“Glad to see you’re approaching this with a positive attitude,” Aya retorts, frowning at either me or the smoke in my hand -- it’s a tough call -- before turning his back to me and dialing Ken’s number. “Mind you, if either of you had gone with Chloé like you were expected to, perhaps we wouldn’t even be in this mess,” he adds, the thick as molasses tone of recrimination in his voice at distinct odds with how quietly he’s speaking. “Have you thought about that, huh?” 

“I…”

Saved from having to come up with a response that didn’t involve either the verbal equivalent of self-flagellation or begging for forgiveness by Ken answering his phone, I take a drag on my cigarette and tune out the sound of Aya’s voice.

Have I thought about blaming myself for Chloé’s disappearance? Fuck me! Of course I’m fucking blaming myself. Christ. All I had to do was get off my ass and go with him to the shop but, nope, I didn’t so much as think of offering to tag along. In fact, all I did was relax back in my chair and light another smoke. I then, apart from wishing at some stage I’d asked him to get me a few packs of cigarettes, didn’t even realize that he’d been gone for far too long until Aya asked where he was. Ha! Some friend I am. Even if I couldn’t have stopped his abduction or whatever it is that’s happened to him, I could have at least raised the alarm sooner or… *something*.

Really, when it all comes down to it, I’m pretty useless. I just am. Can’t protect anyone, can’t offer anything constructive in team discussions about what it is we’re facing… Can’t even bring myself to be one hundred percent honest with Aya.

Can’t do… anything, really. Not when it comes to any of this. I can drive, and smoke, and shoot my mouth off, but other than that I’m as a good as an anchor around the team’s collective neck. If there is a trap waiting for us at the wreckers, which I know there has to be, I have no idea what good I’m going to be for anyone.

“Ken will be approaching the back of the wreckers as we’re going in the front,” Aya mutters, returning his phone to his coat and giving me one of his spine tingling, deceptively neutral looks. “Although he’s been trying them constantly, he’s had no luck contacting either Free or Singapura and has had to settle for leaving messages for them at all the usual places. Turk is at the temporary headquarters but, given the recent loss of agents, he has no one that he can call on to assist us as even Bengal is currently proving impossible to get in contact with.”

“So we’re on our own then,” I murmur, finishing my smoke and flicking the butt out the window. “Here’s to hoping that Schwarz doesn’t have *too* much of a shindig arranged in our honor then as I’d hate to see all their hard work and effort go to waste.”

“We *can* get through this,” Aya replies, narrowing his eyes as his expression changes to one of steely determination. “We just have to remain focused and to not allow Schuldig to get to us. Listen to me, Yohji. Whatever that bastard says to you is to be taken with a grain of salt. He’ll take things from your head and twist them for his own perverse amusement and you’re not to let him get to you.”

“He’s either brave or incredibly stupid if he wants to play in my head,” I respond, rolling my eyes. “But, yeah, I hear what you’re saying. I’ll be careful and I won’t let him get to me. Maybe, who knows, he won’t even be there though and we’re getting all uptight for nothing.”

“He’ll be there,” Aya states firmly. “He’s put too much effort into his little game to simply abandon it now. You’ll see. He’ll be there and whatever it is he’s got planned won’t be pretty. Whatever it takes though, we just have to get through it and survive. That’s all we can really concentrate on for now.”

“Perhaps you’re wrong,” I murmur hopefully, even though I know the words are meaningless, that I’m just saying them to hear myself speak. “Maybe their point has already been proven, their fun already been had… Maybe, I don’t know, maybe we’ll just find Chloé there and that’ll be that.”

“You’re deluding yourself, Yohji, and you know it,” Aya replies gently, his -- still -- intact memory remembering no doubt countless other times, other seemingly impossible battles, like this while mine can’t. “We’re driving into the welcoming arms of hell and, again, you know it,” he continues, placing his hand around my upper arm and squeezing it. “I… I’m sorry for what I said a moment ago about Chloé’s disappearance being your fault. I know that you’re not to blame, that they would have got him even if you or Ken had been with him, and I want you to know that I… I’d take the words back if I could.”

“It doesn’t matter,” I reply, shaking my head. “Besides, given that I happen to agree with you there’s really nothing to apologize about at all.”

“Yes there is,” Aya responds, tightening his grip on my arm to the point of it almost being painful. “You’re not to blame yourself, Yohji and… And I also want you to know that whatever happens now is out of your control, that… that contrary to how this ends, I… I *do* love you and am thankful that you’re back in my life and by my side.”

“Aya?” Not liking the sudden urgency in his voice, I carefully pry his fingers away from my arm and glance at him. “What’s the matter? We’re not even there yet and…”

“And it’s already started,” Aya finishes quietly, gesturing at the rear vision mirror. “While you may not have noticed, that car’s been following us ever since we turned into the industrial estate. Now, notice the tinted windows and lack of number plate? They have to be part of the welcoming committee.”

“They’re a fair distance back,” I murmur dubiously, looking in the mirror and seeing for myself the black Mercedes that Aya’s talking about. “Wouldn’t they be closer if they wanted to take a shot at us or something?”

“They’re not following us to shoot at us,” Aya replies, folding his arms across his chest and giving a resigned sigh. “They’re following us to make sure we don’t try to escape. Think about it. As we’ve been saying all along, if Schwarz wanted us dead we would be already. This little trap may be elaborate, but I doubt even it’s about killing us.”

“Then what then?” I exclaim, my impassive, feeling sorry for myself mood finally snapping over to one of impatience and agitation. “As Ken is so fond of saying, this is fucking bullshit! To hell with it sounding like a stupid comment, I almost wish they’d just try to kill us as God knows it’d be easier to deal with!”

“Tell me about it,” Aya murmurs, pointing through the windscreen to a floodlit wreckers yard just ahead of us to the right. “There it is. Now, Yohji, remember what I said… Whatever happens, you’re not to take it personally. Schuldig… he’ll twist things, private things, but you’re just not to let him get to you.”

“How can you be so freakin’ calm?” I query, pulling the car into the driveway of ‘Auto Part ‘IS’ Us’ and killing the engine. “I don’t know about you but my heart is trying to beat through my damn chest and, courtesy of frustration levels that are going through the roof, I feel as though I could quite happily put my fist straight through the windscreen.”

“I don’t want to be here any more than you do,” Aya replies, undoing his seatbelt and opening the door. “That aside however, getting agitated isn’t going to achieve anything. I know it’s hard, but you’ve got to remain calm. If you fly off the handle you’ll just fall more neatly into their web. Now, come on. Having already made our choice to be here, we now have to see it through.”

“Don’t tell me, let me guess,” I mutter, grabbing my smokes and shoving them in my pocket as I get out of the car. “I’ve just got to have faith, right?”

“It can’t hurt,” Aya whispers as he climbs out and shivers in the cool night air. I note he leaves his katana in the car but don’t say anything. If the car that had been following us, that is now in fact parked directly behind ours, is anything to go on then the yard is probably crawling with so many of Schwarz’s minions that he wouldn’t be allowed a chance to use it anyway. He still has two guns and I’ve got my wire but, like the katana, I doubt that they’re going to do us any good. Whatever it is we’re here for, it’s not to fight.

Come into my parlor, said the spider to the fly.

Game on.

The wreckers, for what exceptionally little that it’s worth, is just like any wreckers the world over. An oil stained gravel path barely wide enough for a car to drive along leads down into a garage-slash-workshop. Piles -- literally -- of ruined cars, some stacked ten high, line each side of the path. The floodlights attached to the roof of the shop bathe the wrecks in harsh, brilliant light and I only just repress the urge to shudder as I look up at them. Some of the cars are just that, a method of transportation from place A to place B, while others were once works of art. Spoilers, chrome exhausts and alloys, one-of-a-kind paint jobs, spectacular decals - a labor of love gone to ruin. Many have shattered windscreens and crumpled bonnets. Most look as though they were involved in accidents that would have spilt blood. A lot of blood.

“Yohji?” Aya states softly from his position in front of our hire car. “Are you ready?”

“I was just admiring the ambience,” I reply as, with a shrug, I join Aya. “I mean, I just love what they’ve done with the place, don’t you?”

“Cozy,” Aya agrees, smiling grimly as he starts to walk through the open gates and down the path. “You coming?”

“Right behind you,” I mutter, taking one last look at the oddly ominous and incredibly creepy looking rows of wrecks before setting off after Aya. I’ve barely caught up with him when the sound of a car door slamming followed by an engine starting up causes me to pause and glance over my shoulder. “Um… I think they’re stealing our car,” I add slowly, watching as a man clad in all black walks from the Mercedes to ours and climbs into the driver’s seat. Then, as he starts it up, the Mercedes backs out of the drive and parks across the street. Following suit, he reverses the car out onto the street and, leaving the driveway clear, parks it behind the Mercedes.

“Right now I could care less about the car,” Aya replies without either pausing or glancing behind him. “Yohji, you would be wise to forget about it too.”

“Uh-huh,” I murmur, jogging to catch up to Aya and falling in step next to him. Sniffing the crisp, still air and finding something rank about it, I pull a face and sigh. “Having already forgotten about the car, can you please tell me that I also need to ignore that scent of death I’m now smelling?”

When Aya doesn’t reply, I look up from my feet -- which I’ve been staring down at because the cars are creeping me out to the extreme -- and nudge him in the side with my elbow. “Hey, Aya… You okay?”

“On the ground, by the cars. Look,” Aya whispers, clamping his hand over his mouth in an attempt to disguise the fact he’s gagging. “Bastards.”

“Huh?” I grunt, knowing full well I don’t want to know what he’s talking about but at the same time, as though I’ve got absolutely no willpower of my own, returning my gaze to the gravel path. What I see installs in me the same reaction it had in Aya and, suddenly regretting having helped myself to so many of his fries, I dry retch.

Kittens. A dozen, maybe as many as twenty, small mutilated bodies lying amongst the puddles of oil and next to the flat, dried out tires. Tiny pools of blood surround their bodies and, thanks to the almost blinding light of the floodlights, it’s obvious that it’s fresh, that they haven’t been long dead.

“Bastards? You’re too kind on them,” I mutter hoarsely, wiping the back of my hand across my mouth. “Hell. Calling them bastards is nowhere near strong enough.”

“But what would…” Trailing off, Aya shakes his head and scowls, his face as hard as I’ve ever seen it. “Oh well. At least we now know for sure that Chloé’s here.”

“But…” Realizing the true gist of Aya’s comment before finishing my question, I fall silent as the first tendrils of anger begin to mingle with my uncertainty and fear. Because of his unique genetic makeup, Chloé’s susceptible to the pain of cats and, making the assumption that the sick fucks killed the kittens just to mess with his head, there’s no denying that he’s going to be in an incredibly bad way when -- *assuming* -- we find him.

“You know, there are some people that death is just too good for,” I murmur, the revulsion I’m feeling coming through loud and clear in my voice. “I mean, hell… There are just some things you *don’t* do.”

“Not if you’re Schuldig there isn’t,” Aya replies, coming to a stop as the sliding door into the garage glides open and two men step through it out onto the path. Like the one who drove our car out of the drive, they’re both dressed in a black turtleneck and black trousers and, although I could be wrong, neither look as though their I.Q. score would make it into triple digits. 

“Remember, Yohji,” Aya adds in a whisper as the men advance towards us, semi-automatic assault rifles pointed at our heads. “Whatever happens, stay strong. Stay strong and we’ll get through this.”

“Our boss has been waiting for you,” the taller of the rock apes grunts, slinging his gun over his shoulder as he roughly pats me down, confiscating both my wire and -- the prick! -- my cigarettes. I think about demanding he gives me at least the smokes back but the sight of his companion’s finger on the trigger of his rifle as he levels it at Aya’s forehead tells me that perhaps I’d better not.

“Hey, not our fault his pretentious invite didn’t have a time to R.S.V.P. by on it,” I mutter blithely, staring into the man’s close-set, remarkably devoid of life eyes and shrugging insolently. “Don’t worry about passing my complaint on though, just point me in the direction of the dumb ass and I’d be delighted to inform him of the error of his ways myself.”

Ignoring me, in fact, going by his ‘the lights are on but no one’s home’ expression, I doubt he even heard a word I said, the man moves across to Aya and repeats his patting down routine. Feeling Aya stiffen next to me, for a second I wonder if he’s going to make a break for it and draw his guns. It then hits me however that it’s not having to give up his weapons that’s bothering Aya so much as it is feeling the man’s hands groping around under his coat. When he’s finished, when both of Aya’s guns and, oddly, his rosary beads, have been added to the man’s collection of confiscated goods, a small percentage of the tension leaves Aya’s body and he snorts derisively. 

“Can we continue now?” Aya queries, effecting a disinterested tone and glaring at the man as though, as far as he was concerned, he had absolutely no right to be standing so brazenly in front of him.

“But of course,” a new voice calls out from inside the garage. “Men, allow our… guests… to enter. We have, after all, been waiting for them.”

Parting as though their movements had long ago been choreographed and practiced to perfection, the two men step smoothly back, allowing us to see both the newcomer and into the interior of the garage. On the far wall, above hundreds of lit, creamy white church candles, flickers the same image of the phoenix with the ankh burned it its chest that we saw in Wapping. And, just like it did there, seeing it immediately installs a nauseous sense of dread and foreboding in me. 

Then again, mind you, the same can be pretty much said about the man too. 

Dressed in all black, albeit far more fashionably than his minions in an exquisitely cut suede suit and silk shirt, and with fiery orange colored hair that falls halfway down his back, he looks about as far removed from his blue collar surroundings as is conceivably possible. Apart from his hair and skin, his only other sources of color are his blue eyes, a Remembrance Day poppy in his left lapel, and, somewhat quaintly, a thin strip of leopard print fur around the cuffs of his suede jacket. As he glides towards us, confidence and arrogance oozing out of his posture and smug expression, I see that he’s wearing Chloé’s cross, the gold Celtic one I commented on back at the castle, around his neck.

Schuldig. Although I still can’t recall ever having seen him in the flesh before, I’ve seen enough photographs of him just recently to know him anywhere.

“Ah, Abyssinian, you do not look at all well,” Schuldig comments by way of greeting, closing in on Aya and, with a black leather gloved hand, slowly, almost tenderly stroking his cheek. “Are you sure you should be out and about on a cold night such as this?”

“Get fucked, Schuldig,” Aya snarls, jerking his head back and glaring at the German with the sort of searing intensity that would make a lesser mortal drop cowering to his knees. 

Laughing with what sounds like genuine happiness, Schuldig claps Aya on the shoulder and, taking a step sideways, comes to stand in front of me. “Balinese,” he murmurs, a truly disconcerting grin stretching across his face as he looks me up and down. “Long time no see, huh. I trust you’ve been keeping better than Abyssinian? You surely *look* as though you have.”

“Let’s cut to the chase, shall we?” Aya interjects, moving closer to my side and, with an indifferent sigh, folding his arms across his chest. “We’re here now, Schuldig, so, come on, you may as well hit us with whatever it is you’ve been so busily planning and be done with it.”

“Patience my dear feline, patience,” Schuldig replies, winking at me and gesturing his two men over. Knowing what’s expected of them, the taller one displays the items he took from us while the other one, who I swear couldn’t multi-task to save his life going by the look of him, once again levels his rifle at our heads. “Hmm… Packing heat now, I see,” he continues, glancing at Aya as, carelessly throwing the Beretta down on the ground, he slips the Glock into a pocket in his jacket. “How positively… advanced of you. Forgive me, but I honestly thought you’d be swinging that silly piece of metal around until the very end.” 

“Guns leave less mess to clean up,” Aya responds coolly, his face impassive as Schuldig admires the rosary beads for a few seconds before slipping them into his pocket to join the Glock. “And, seeing as when I kill you I don’t want to have to waste my time cleaning bits of you *off* anything, I thought shooting you would be the way to go.”

“Ooooh… I see that being sick does wonders for your sense of humor,” Schuldig retorts, his grin broadening as, dropping my wire down on the ground to join the Beretta, he slips the smokes into the back pocket of his trousers. “Balinese, I know you’re suffering from the aftereffects of amnesia, but don’t tell me it’s impacted on your ability to mouth off as well? I mean, you’re being *awfully* quiet which, really, isn’t like you at all.”

“Fact of the matter is I thought Aya said enough for both of us when he told you to get fucked,” I drawl, shoving my hands in my pockets and shrugging. “Apologies, however, if you were waiting to hear it directly from me.”

“Ah, that’s better,” Schuldig replies, turning around and starting to walk back into the workshop. “Okay, seeing as I’m confident the pair of you are now armed with nothing other than your smart mouths and scathing wit, please, follow me. While I don’t know about you, I’ve *more* than had enough of being outside for the time being.” 

Any desire I may have felt for cutting and running being negated by Schuldig’s two bodyguards moving around behind us and giving our backs a vicious prod with the barrel of their rifles, I share a worried look with Aya and, together, we walk into the garage after Schuldig. Like the piles of car wrecks, the interior of the workshop makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end and, wanting to take it all in while simultaneously wanting to screw my eyes shut in denial, I don’t know what to look at first.

Empty of furniture save for a work bench that runs the length of the far wall and that’s literally covered with hundreds of church candles, I’d say that the garage is big enough to fit approximately nine cars, three across and three along, in it. Eight men, four on each side, line the two side walls. With their black clothes, lifeless expressions, and semi-automatic assault rifles held at the ready in their hands, each and every one of them is like a clone of the two walking behind us. The only light comes from the candles and, for a moment or two, as my eyes become adjusted to their amber glow, I become aware of a slight figure standing directly in front of them. Dressed in a dark gray suit that’s oddly reminiscent of some of the English school uniforms I’ve seen around the place, he’s so still and composed that, perhaps irrationally, instinct tells me to fear him more than Schuldig

At his feet, lying with his back to us and stretched -- out as though he’d been posed that way -- on his side with his legs half curled and one arm outstretched, is Chloé. Like the man standing above him, he’s so still that it’s impossible to even tell whether he’s alive or not. What’s also worrying is the fact that the clothes he’s wearing, an oversized white shirt and slim fitting black trousers, are different to what he left the house in.

“Hey, Rosebud,” Schuldig states loudly, walking straight up to Chloé and giving him a none-too-gentle kick in the back. “Looks like I was wrong and you *do* still have a couple of friends willing to risk their lives for your useless one.”

“What have you done to him, you bastard?” Aya hisses, his eyes flashing with temper as, with a low moan, Chloé tries to curl in on himself. “As for you, Nagi,” he adds venomously, glaring at the younger man by Schuldig’s side, “foolishly, I expected better from you. Clearly, however, I was wrong to think a fucked up leopard such as yourself would be capable of changing its spots.”

“Speaking of leopards,” Schuldig smiles, strolling over and rubbing the cuff of his jacket down Aya’s cheek and neck. “Do you like my little… ah… fashion accessory? It’s so soft that when I stroke it I fully expect it to start purring.” Pausing, he steps across to me and holds out his arm so I can inspect his cuff. “You’re a man who understands and appreciates the finer points of fashion, are you not?” he continues, his smile disappearing only to be replaced by a predatory looking smirk. “I mean, surely you’d agree that if you’re going to go fur you have to go… *real*. Now, look closely… Can’t you just imagine it once running around the wilds of Africa… or perhaps sleeping at the foot of your bed?”

Aya’s mind obviously capable of working at far quicker speeds than mine will ever operate under, he’s busily calling Schuldig a number of variations on ‘sick fuck’ even before I’ve fully grasped all the finer nuances behind his gratuitous little fashion show. Then, arguably better late than never, it hits me with enough force to make my knees feel as though they want to buckle beneath me.

Mystique. 

If what he’s saying is true, he’s wearing Mystique on his jacket! And if he was able to get to Mystique then it also means that he would have been able to get to Yuki and Michel. And Mihirogi… And KR…

And… Oh God… Oh dear God… I can’t recall when it was any of us last spoke to them…

“What’s the matter, Balinese?” Schuldig murmurs sweetly, taking a step back and peering at me with blatantly false concern. “Cat got your tongue?”

“Fuck… you,” I grind out, forcing myself to meet his eyes and to stand just that little bit straighter. “You… You’re just sick, twisted…”

“Sticks and stones,” Schuldig replies, giving a small, unconcerned shrug as he glances down at Chloé. “To answer you question from before I rudely took things off track, Abyssinian, I’ve done nothing to Rosebud other than take him on a small trip down memory lane…” Trailing off, he moves closer to Aya and gestures airily at Chloé. “Nagi, if you’d be so kind as to prove to our guests that Rosebud *isn’t* actually in as bad a way as he’s pretending to be, I’d be *most* grateful.”

Nodding his acceptance of Schuldig’s politely worded order, Nagi crouches down and grabs a good handful of Chloé’s hair. He then hesitates however over using it to pull him upright by and, as Schuldig’s eyes narrow threateningly, moves his hand down to the collar of Chloé’s shirt and, clutching it tightly, uses it to both turn him over and drag him to his knees. Despite Nagi’s almost fragile appearance, he manhandles Chloé with what looks to be no effort whatsoever and I make a mental note not to ever underestimate his strength.

Gasping either from pain or from the shock of being so suddenly moved, Chloé slumps down on his knees and stares, I suspect very much without seeing anything, at the oil stained concrete floor. Around his neck he’s wearing a choker made from fresh poppies and red slashes of what looks like dried blood have been randomly painted on his chest. Both stand out vividly against the paleness of his flesh and the stark whiteness of his unbuttoned shirt. Although he won’t lift his head so we can see his face, I can’t see any obvious injuries anywhere on him and hope like crazy that whatever Schuldig meant by taking him on a ‘trip down memory lane’ hasn’t done any lasting damage to him. 

“Okay, you’ve had your sick fun,” Aya mutters, dragging his gaze away from the crumpled form of his friend and glowering defiantly at Schuldig. “Come on, spit it out already. What do you fucking want from us?”

“In a moment, in a moment,” Schuldig murmurs, glancing to his left and clapping his hands together gleefully. “First, however, we must pause and greet our last guest.”

Our last guest? Who the hell would be our…

“Get your fucking filthy hands off me you stupid asshole!”

Ah. Ken. Silly me.

It’s now official. We’re fucked.

Turning around slowly, I look towards the door and as, dripping blood everywhere from a shoulder wound, Ken is shoved into the workshop by yet another pair of dead-from-the-knees-up minions. His eyes wild and his expression bordering on feral, Ken stumbles before falling heavily to his knees. “Hey, Yohji, Aya!” he calls out, grimacing as he lifts his arm in salute. “How’s things your end?”

“Peachy,” I reply, flinching as I notice that the reason his shoulder is pissing blood everywhere is because it’s actually got one of his claws deeply embedded in it. “Pity the same can’t be said for you though.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about me,” Ken retorts, snarling as a minion dares to wave his gun threateningly in his face. “I still managed to take out four of the fuckers before they got me.”

“Four?” Schuldig echoes, raising his eyebrow and sighing. “Oh well. These things can’t be helped. Did you hear that, Rosebud? Siberian, the one who, if I’m correct, has enough sense not to like you, actually managed to take out some of the hired help…”

“Compared to you, you insane orange haired bastard, Chloé’s my all time favorite person *ever*,” Ken shouts, clutching his shoulder and visibly weakening from the pain. “So keep him… the fuck… out of it.”

Responding to an almost imperceptible flick of Schuldig’s finger, the minion closest to Ken brings the butt of his rifle down hard against the back of Ken’s head, sending him sprawling, unconscious onto the cold concrete.

“Now that you’re all here and I can hear myself think again,” Schuldig murmurs, looking straight at Aya and calmly combing his fingers through his hair. “I think, perhaps, the time has come to get down to business.”

“Hallelujah,” Aya mutters, returning Schuldig’s gaze unflinchingly. “Although I’m positive I’ve asked this already, just what is it that you want from us?”

“Oh, I just want you,” Schuldig replies, suddenly closing his hand around Aya’s shoulder and dragging him, stumbling, a short distance away from me. “Everyone else is just for fun, you know, a small added bonus.”

“Get your hand off him!” I exclaim, making to take a step towards Schuldig only to stop dead as I feel the butt of a rifle pushing between my shoulder blades. “Just… Just what the fuck are you talking about?”

“It’s really quite simple,” Schuldig replies, keeping one hand locked around Aya’s shoulder while he uses the other to retrieve the Glock from the inside of his jacket. “Our… employer… wants Abyssinian. Having had the pleasure of his company once, he’s found that he’s quite incapable of living without him and has hired our services to assist in returning him to his care. That’s all. Everything else has been solely for my amusement.”

“I…” Swallowing hard, Aya squirms under Schuldig’s hand but makes no real attempt to get away. “I don’t understand.”

“At first, I was annoyed that my trap at the cemetery failed,” Schuldig responds, ignoring Aya as, one handedly, he takes the safety off the Glock. “Now, however, given the incredible amount of fun I’ve had today, I’m actually pleased that those idiots arrived to save you.”

“What… idiots?” Aya queries, an expression of what looks to be mounting discomfort flashing up on his pale face. “The cemetery? Even by your usual standards, Schuldig, you’re making no sense.”

“Don’t tell me the interfering git put a block on your memory?” Schuldig mutters, scowling with annoyance as he trains the gun first on me and then on Chloé. “Honestly, if there’s anyone more annoying than that goody-two-shoes then I’m yet to have met them. Personally, I’d have thought floating in to save the day would have been enough but, oh-no, he just had to take it upon himself to help your mental state as well. What a freakin’ hero.” 

Sighing heavily and looking put out, Schuldig lets go of Aya’s shoulder only to reach up and press his hand against his cheek and temple. “Oh well. Here. Have back that which was taken from you.”

“Wha…” The rest of his question dying on his lips, Aya’s eyes close momentarily before flying open and looking, for a second, even wilder than Ken’s did when he was brought into the workshop. “No,” he groans, pulling his head away from Schuldig’s hand and swaying. “You… You weren’t there…”

“Oh but I was,” Schuldig murmurs, retracting his hand and smiling in a manner that makes him look like the proverbial cat with the cream. “In fact, as you’re now only just remembering, I was not only at the cemetery but I was also at Wapping. Aaah… Now, Wapping, that *was* fun. I especially liked seeing for myself that, yes, Abyssinian, you *do* look as good in the flesh as you do in… those photographs.”

“You…” Not needing to see what little color there was in Aya’s face draining away to know what Schuldig’s talking about, I glare at him and, despite the complete futility of the gesture, brandish my fist at him. Schuldig was at Wapping. Schuldig was at the cemetery. Schuldig no doubt has access to the originals of the photographs in the magazine. Hell, Schuldig well and truly has Aya’s number. “Leave him alone, you prick!” I snap desperately. “Just leave him the fuck alone.” 

“Hmm… I think not,” Schuldig smirks, glancing at his watch before, with a steady arm, pointing the Glock directly at my heart. “Abyssinian, given that we still have some time before your… ride… arrives and given, also, that this may be my last chance to worship such beauty, would you be a dear and remove your clothes…”

“Y-you w-what?” Aya stammers, shaking his head and taking a step back from Schuldig. “No. Just no. If you want my clothes off you’ll have to remove them yourself from my dead body.”

“Again, I think not,” Schuldig replies calmly, curling his finger around the Glock’s trigger. “You see, while it’s imperative that you remain alive, no one really cares what happens to your friends. In other words, just in case it’s not getting clearly through to you, either you do as you’re told or, well, I’m just going to have to start shooting.”

“No,” Aya whispers, hanging his head as a tremor of fear visibly works its way through his body. “You can’t…”

“I think you’ll find that I can,” Schuldig retorts, swinging the gun from me to Chloé. “It’s your call, kitty-cat. Amuse me until your new owner arrives or, *bang*, someone’s going to score themselves their very own bullet.”

“No,” Aya repeats, a thin sheen of sweat breaking out across his forehead and causing his bangs to stick to it. “I… I won’t.”

“Fine then, have it your way,” Schuldig mutters, shrugging even as he squeezes the trigger, sending a bullet flying through the air towards Chloé.

My mouth dropping open in a silent scream, I’m in the process of closing my eyes when, barely millimeters from Chloé’s heart, the bullet comes to a sudden stop, freezing in mid air. Unable to believe what it is I’m seeing, I’m about to glance across at Aya when, out of the corner of my eye, I notice that Nagi’s left arm is outstretched and that the palm of his hand is directly facing the bullet. Realizing that he’s somehow controlling it, I release a shaky, pent up breath and slowly shake my head. Chloé though, if he’s even conscious enough to be aware of the danger he’s in, remains perfectly still, his eyes fixed on the concrete. 

This is all just too much.

God alone knows what’s wrong with Chloé, Ken’s possibly bleeding to death, Nagi can control bullets with his mind, and Schuldig, Mr Master Of Ceremonies himself, wants Aya to strip for him.

Oh. And that’s only taking into consideration the here and now. En route, even as we all stand around staring at the suspended bullet, is someone who wants to, by the sounds of things, assume *ownership* of Aya. 

Again. We are *so* fucked.

“Care to rethink your last answer, Abyssinian?” Schuldig murmurs, once again pointing the Glock at me as the bullet falls harmlessly to the ground. “That was merely a demonstration. Trust me, however, the next one won’t be so conveniently stopped from hitting its target.”

Keeping his head lowered, Aya sighs softly and silently shrugs out of his coat. He then, as the feelings of uselessness that have been dogging me ever since landing in Tokyo finally reach breaking point, tugs his jumper off and drops it by his feet.

“No!” I howl, not caring in the slightest about the rifle butt in my back and lunging at Schuldig. Hands grab at me, holding me back, but, enraged, I keep trying to move forward. “Aya! No! You don’t have to do this! Please… Oh God… Please, let me. If all he’s after is a striptease then, hell, let me do it.”

“Kind of you to offer, Balinese,” Schuldig states, stepping in front of me and forcefully shoving me in the chest. “But, as you yourself know, it has to be Abyssinian. There’s just something so… compelling… about him.”

“You sick pervert!” I spit, flipping over into outraged, wailing banshee mode and, despite the hands still holding me back, stretching out my arms and slapping at Schuldig. “Is this the only way you can get any, huh? You’re so fucking pathetic that you have to wield your delusions of power over others in order to get off… You… You disgust me!”

“And you’re boring me,” Schuldig retorts, grinning as he punches me hard enough in the stomach to send me stumbling back in the arms of the minion behind me. “Now, shut up and wait your turn.”

The blow having knocked the wind out of me, I slump to my knees and watch, my vision blurring with unshed tears, as Aya continues to remove his clothing. Sure, I could continue ranting and raving, but…

But what’s the point?

I can’t help him. Unlike Chloé and Ken I’m not even injured, yet still I’m unable to do anything to stop Aya’s worst nightmare from becoming a hideous reality. First Asuka and now Aya. I’m more than a failure to those who are special to me, I’m a *danger*. If I’d gone with Chloé when he went to the 7-Eleven… If only I could think of something to *do*, something to somehow help Aya…

If… only…

When he’s down to his briefs, Aya glances at Schuldig, his eyes pleading with him not to make him do this even though he’s too stubborn, too proud, to actually beg verbally. Because of the cold air flowing into the garage from the open door, his nipples stand erect in a cruel parody of arousal, but he looks far from sexy. In fact, he just looks heartbreakingly frail and vulnerable. 

A soft whimpering sound reaching my ears, I drag my gaze away from Aya and look across at Chloé. Looking up for the first time since Schuldig’s sordid floorshow started, he’s staring across at Aya with an expression of what can only be described as raw anguish on his face. Whimpering again, he lowers his head and slumps, in what looks to be complete and utter defeat, closer to the ground. He looks so broken that -- if only I fucking could! -- I want to help him almost as much as I want to help Aya. While Aya’s facing his nightmares, I think, having now seen his face, Chloé’s already been dragged through his and its still got its claws in him.

Unable to continue looking at Chloé though for fear of him fixing his pale, pain filled blue eyes on me accusingly -- ‘You’re his lover, Goddamn it, you’re supposed to protect him! I *trusted* you to look after him!’ -- I return, with no small percentage of apprehension, my gaze to Aya. His silent entreaty having been either ignored or dismissed, he’s in the process of pulling his briefs down when Schuldig stops him by walking over and batting his hands away.

“On second thoughts, perhaps we’d better save *something* for your new owner to uncover,” Schuldig comments, smirking as, with his briefs around his knees, Aya’s entire body blushes a deep crimson. Like Chloé, he looks as though he’s just passed the point of no return and something has snapped within him, pushing him over the edge into his own private hell.

“*Well*?” Schuldig states after a few seconds have ticked slowly by and everyone in the room has had a chance to have a good look at what he’s reduced Aya to. “Didn’t you hear me, Abyssinian? While admittedly not in as many words, I said you can keep your knickers on,” he continues with a fake ‘we’re all mates here’ laugh as, taking matters into his own hands, he roughly pulls Aya’s briefs up.

Startled slightly into life by this, Aya backs away from the invasive fingers lingering on his upper thighs but stops when, gliding silently over from his position by the wall, a minion materializes behind him and pushes him back towards Schuldig.

Running out of options in relation to what I can look at without wanting to either scream myself hoarse or gouge my eyes out, I lower my head and reluctantly glance across at Ken. To my relief blood is no longer pouring out of his shoulder wound and, although still deeply unconscious, his breathing is steady and his pallor, while paler than usual, is better than both Aya’s and Chloé’s. 

“Oh, Balinese…”

Ignoring Schuldig, I slowly stand up, all the time keeping my eyes trained on Ken.

“Oh, Balinese…”

Begrudgingly accepting that telling the German psychopath to get fucked probably *wouldn’t*, unfortunately, achieve anything of note, I casually brush the dust away from the knees of my jeans and, with a tiny shrug, continue staring at Ken.

“Balinese!”

The impatient, narky tone of Schuldig’s voice telling me that I’m managing to piss him off, I mime a yawn and, because it seems to be working, blithely carry on with my vacant staring at Ken. I fully expect that I’m asking for it but, well, so be it. Given that I’m the only one who’s still arguably in control of himself and not injured, it’s probably for the best if I try to draw some of Schuldig’s fire anyway. Let’s face it, it’s at once all, and the very least that I can do.

“Look up, Balinese. You need to look up and admire Abyssinian.”

My mouth being too dry to cope with whistling, I settle for jamming my hands in my pockets and yawning again. If I didn’t want to see how long I can remain silent for I’d give him my best Taxi Driver impression - ‘You talkin’ to me?’ -- just to really push his buttons.

“Balinese! You are trying my patience.”

“Did you know that studies have shown that serial killers hate cats?” a soft, monotonous voice comments apropos of nothing. “They hate them because unlike dogs and their victims, they can’t dominate them. You can yell at a cat until you lose your voice and still not make any impact on them. Yet yell at a dog long enough and they shall cower at your feet.”

“Thanks for both the information and the advice, Nagi,” Schuldig mutters sarcastically. “I’d forgotten how much I’d enjoyed… *not*… having you around.”

“I was merely passing comment, that is all,” Nagi replies politely. “Please, however, continue.”

“Smart ass,” Schuldig murmurs with an indifferent sigh. “Balinese, while I have tried to be patient it appears now as though I have no other choice.”

No other choice but to do… *what*?

Oh-oh…

Not wanting to know the truth behind what Schuldig is cryptically hinting at, I’m in the process of making a concession to his demands by bringing my gaze back to the ground directly in front of me when, without warning, Aya is shoved into my arms. Instinct more than skill making me grab him by the shoulders to help keep his balance, I’ve still lifting my head to look at him when he gasps and, his entire body going momentarily rigid, tries to pull away from me.

“Aya!” I murmur anxiously, letting him go and looking across to Schuldig just in time to watch a smoldering cigarette butt slip from his fingers. It hits the concrete just as the sickening smell of scorched flesh reaches my nostrils and, knowing without having to see the proof that the bastard would have stubbed the smoke out on Aya, I only *just* manage to keep my stomach contents safely in my stomach. “You… You…”

“Bastard?” Schuldig offers benignly, his eyes locked on mine as he grabs Aya by the back of the head and shoves him into my face. “Now, now, Balinese. Given that you have no one other than yourself to blame, I really don’t think you should be mouthing off, do you?”

“Leave him alone,” I snarl, jerking my head away from Aya’s -- can’t look at him, don’t *want* to look at him -- and glaring at Schuldig. “Just leave him the hell alone.”

“Oh, I’ve nearly finished with him,” Schuldig replies, closing his free hand around my cheek and forcing me to look at Aya. “I just wish to make one thing crystal clear for you, Balinese, and that’s that the next time you ignore me, I use his eyes as an ashtray… Oh, and trust me, with regards to what he’ll soon be doing it won’t matter a damn whether he can see or not, so please don’t make the mistake of dismissing it as an idle threat.” 

“Fine. You win,” I mutter, unable to bear the mute look of both horror and defeat on Aya’s face and closing my eyes. “You say jump and I’ll be jumping my little heart out even before you can say how high.”

“That’s what I like to hear,” Schuldig responds, releasing my face and pulling Aya away from me. “Now, Balinese, let’s start again… You need to look up and admire Abyssinian’s new collar.”

Schuldig’s apparently high to extreme levels of sadistic insanity telling me in no uncertain terms that he’d think nothing of living up to his threat of stubbing a cigarette out in Aya’s eyes, I do as I’m told and look up. His mood clearly having improved now that he’s back in control again, Schuldig stands, grinning like the fucking Cheshire Cat, behind Aya, his arms draped over his shoulders and his black, leather gloved hands resting proprietarily on Aya’s chest. Around his throat, Aya’s wearing a thick band of black patent leather, in the center of which, just below his Adam’s Apple, is a diamond ankh not dissimilar in size to the one on my pendant. 

Aya’s statement -- ‘I... I won't wear a collar. Not... Not for anyone, not again.’ -- back from the night we went to Anarchy jumping uninvited into my head, I stare at the band of leather encircling his neck and, although it’s cowardly of me, don’t even attempt to imagine how he’s feeling. As overused as the saying may be, ignorance, and there’s really no help for it, in this case just has to be for the best.

All but naked… Collared… Deprived of both self-respect and control… 

“Come on, Balinese,” Schuldig states, gliding his hands further down Aya’s chest as Aya, who I honestly think has simply given up, stands rooted to the spot, his eyes wide and vacant. “There’s no need to look so glum. Even if this isn’t what you’d had in mind for your evening, you can’t deny what a fine, fine sight Abyssinian makes. I mean, just look at him. Passive… Ready to do whatever you tell him to… Go on. Admit it. Admit that you’re tempted.”

“My mind’s too full of thoughts of dragging out your death to be interested in sex at the moment,” I retort, my treacherous eyes glued on Schuldig’s gloved hands as they caress Aya’s torso. “Sorry.”

“You can’t lie to me, Balinese,” Schuldig murmurs, a small, almost condescending smile tugging on his lips as, changing position, he glides his hands along Aya’s sides, making him lift him arms out. “You hate me and you want me dead, yes, but at the same time you can’t look away from Abyssinian here. Even here, in this dirty garage in front of all of these prying eyes, you want him.”

“I… I do not!” I reply, shaking my head adamantly even as a faint voice whispers in my ear how… hot… Aya happens to look. “Aya! Don’t listen to him. He’s… He’s making up fantasies in his head.”

“Ah, but if I am I’m not the only one,” Schuldig responds, running his hands along the underside of Aya’s arms, straightening them to form the perfect crucifixion pose before, his work done, stepping around him and giving a slight bow. Aya, and this more than anything makes me wonder if Schuldig’s somehow controlling him, continues to hold his position although there’s no longer anyone touching him, his eyes staring directly across at me.

“You want him, Balinese, and you can’t in all honesty deny it,” Schuldig continues, winking as he pulls the rosary beads out of his pocket and places them over Aya’s head. The cross falls to just over his navel and for some reason, as it settles there, it strikes me as one of the most erotic things I’ve ever seen.

He’s just… sexy… An angel fallen into the wrong hands.

“You’re… wrong,” I mutter, wanting to look away, to not to stare at Aya as though he was simply an object placed there for my gratification, but, my willpower having deserted me, finding myself incapable of so much as blinking let alone looking away. 

“And it’s not just because of how… sexy… or how… desirable… he looks either. No. It’s also because of how, deep within yourself, you know that this is what he *deserves*,” Schuldig states, strolling over to come and stand next to me. “Look at him. For once you’ve got the upper hand. He can’t say no or brush you off. If you want to you can show him what you *truly* think of him.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I reply hesitantly as, save for Aya and Schuldig, the world around me ceases to exist. One minute it’s -- the garage, the minions, *reality* -- all there and the next, nothing, it’s just *gone*. Aya, I can see, Schuldig, I can hear. Other than that however there’s honestly nothing. “You… You’ve got it all wrong.”

“You love him, but at the same time you hate him enough to know that this is right, that he’s been asking for this for a long time,” Schuldig murmurs, leaning in close to talk directly in my ear. “Think about it, Balinese, and be honest with yourself. It’s his fault that Asuka is dead. He told you that we would have killed her even if you hadn’t returned to the fold but he’s wrong. If he hadn’t interfered with your life she’d still be alive now.”

“No…” Jerking my head away from Schuldig, I pull my hands out of my pockets and, not knowing what else to do with them, settle for folding my arms across my chest. “You’re lying…”

“Believe what you will,” Schuldig replies, shrugging. “He dragged you back into this life yet you’re the one paying for it. I doubt he even cares about your suffering. All he does is dictate to you and do what *he* wants to do. Again, think about it. How often do you end up having to jerk off because the stars aren’t correctly aligned for him to be in mood or whatever it is that it actually takes for you to get into his pants…”

“It… Goddamn it! Our sex life is none of your freakin’ business…”

“Hmm… He really does walk all over you, doesn’t he? You’re meant to be lovers yet you have to make do with what little he deigns to give you while he, whenever he feels like it, I might add, goes off with Rosebud…”

“You…” Interesting. While, really, it should be impossible, it appears that things *can* always get worse. Schuldig’s merrily trawling through my mind, I’m staring at the statue like form of Aya with what I’m sure has to be lust in my eyes, and I’m not only beginning to see the logic in what I’m being told but I can also feel myself becoming hard. 

“Just admit it, Balinese,” Schuldig states, smiling coldly. “You *like* seeing Abyssinian like this. You like it because of the fine picture he paints and because it… serves… him… right… To him, you’re little more than a lapdog that he only rarely remembers to take out for walkies.”

“No…” My response coming out in the form of a moan, I dig my fingernails into the soft flesh of my palms and, with a Herculean effort, force myself to look up at Aya’s face. To my… dismay… he’s staring straight back at me, his amethyst eyes filled with both betrayal and disgust. “Aya! No! I… I’m not listening to him! I…”

“While words can disguise the truth,” Schuldig interrupts, his eyes glittering with victory as he reaches down and grabs my crotch, “the body unfortunately can’t…” Trailing off, he squeezes me hard through the denim of my jeans and glances triumphantly across at Aya. “My apologies, Abyssinian, but it’s true. Balinese both accepts what he’s hearing and likes what he’s seeing.”

“Get your filthy fucking hands off me!” I exclaim, trying to pull away from Schuldig’s groping hand and backing into the brick wall like body of a minion. To my increasing horror Aya’s not just staring at me with disgust but he’s also, somehow without me even noticing it, lowered his arms to his sides, meaning, I’m sure of it, that he’s now fully aware of everything that’s being said. “Just… Aya! It’s not true. He… He’s lying.”

“That plaintive sound of desperation in your voice, Balinese, it’s like music to my ears,” Schuldig smirks, his fingers deftly unzipping the fly of my jeans. “Now… What do you say we show Abyssinian how you truly feel about seeing him standing there like that? He almost looks as good as he does in those photographs, hmm?”

“You’re insane, you know that, don’t you?” I reply, struggling futilely to extricate myself from both Schuldig’s fingers and the minion’s hands that he’s got clamped around my shoulders to keep me in place. “You… You’re just…”

“Out of time,” Nagi murmurs, calmly cutting off my incoherent rant and walking across to position himself alongside Schuldig. “They are here.”

“Damn,” Schuldig mutters, his expression momentarily falling as, giving my cock one last squeeze, he straightens up and glances towards the door. “Just as I was beginning to enjoy myself too.”

“Perhaps some other time, huh?” I sneer, slumping back against the minion in relief. “Sick fuck.”

“Be careful what you wish for, Balinese,” Schuldig replies, leaning forward and, I suspect for no other reason than he *can*, giving my cheek a leisurely lick. “Mmm… You taste like… cancer,” he adds softly, moving away from me and returning to Aya’s side as a Rolls Royce glides silently into the garage and stops barely a meter away from where I’m standing.

While normal, in that perfectly pretentious way that only truly expensive cars are capable of being, in every other aspect of its two tone, dark gray and silver appearance, instead of having the usual winged lady -- the Spirit of Ecstasy -- on its hood, the Rolls has a solid silver ankh. Anything being better than looking at Aya – who’s looking back at me as though I’ve just stabbed him in the back and pushed his body into a river for good measure -- I’m still staring at the out of place hood ornament as the driver’s side door opens and a tall, dark haired man wearing glasses and a charcoal business suit steps out. 

Finding him oddly familiar, it’s just clicking in my brain that he has to be Crawford, the other member of Schwarz that we know to be slithering around Tokyo as, playing the role of chauffeur exquisitely, he walks around the Rolls and opens the back passenger door.

“I do hope you’re ready for this, Abyssinian,” Schuldig murmurs softly, once again clapping his hands together gleefully. 

“That’s enough, Schuldig,” Crawford orders, shooting an annoyed look at the German as the passenger, another vaguely familiar looking male, climbs out of the back seat of the Rolls Royce and glances around him dismissively. While average in both weight and height, his shoulder length hair is peculiar in that it changes from platinum to pitch black halfway down his neck and it reminds me of…

Fuck! It reminds me of Kimura, the bastard who’s memorial pyramid used to so piss me off even when I thought he meant nothing to me.

Kimura, the entrepreneur who I read up on in magazines and who in my old, *original*, life I wanted to kill with my bare hands for what he did to Aya.

Kimura, whose throat was slit by Aya and whose diamond earring I wear as a pendant.

But… Oh dear God. Just what the fuck is going on here? Aya killed him! He’s dead. He has to be…

His icy blue eyes settling on Aya, he smiles coldly and -- his prey located -- starts to walk across to him. Aya, his mind clearly having followed -- no doubt with a few extra details and unwanted memories -- the same route as mine, watches the man approach him through wide, panicked eyes.

“No,” Aya groans, shaking his head, the obvious fear his posture is screaming of hitting me with all the force of a wrecking ball. “You’re… You’re dead.” 

“And like the phoenix, I have risen from the ashes,” the man replies smoothly, his thin lipped smile broadening as, reaching Aya, he picks up the rosary beads and holds them, as though they were a leash, loosely in his hand. 

“No,” Aya repeats numbly, his breathing labored as he presses against the minion holding him in an attempt to distance himself from the flesh and blood embodiment of his worst nightmare staring him in the face. “I killed you. You’re not real.”

“Oh, I’m very real,” Kimura’s doppelganger responds, releasing the rosary beads and letting them fall back against Aya’s chest. “As, my darling boy, you’re soon going to find out. Now, you can either make your own way to the car or I can have someone carry you, it is down to you. Given that it’s possibly the last choice you’re ever going to make, I suggest you…”

The sight of the hundreds of candles against the back wall all flaring in unison causing the man to trail off, he glances across at Schuldig and raises an enquiring eyebrow. “I trust everything is fully under control?” he queries coolly.

“Of course it…”

The candles flaring again, Schuldig frowns and is in the process of opening his mouth to continue when, suddenly, they all go out and the workshop is plunged into almost complete darkness. For a second the phoenix continues to glow on the wall but then it too goes out and enveloping blackness descends fully over the garage. Curiously, I’m not even bothered by this abrupt change and continue standing slumped against my guard as though nothing had changed. 

Although I have no idea why, there’s something almost… promising… about the darkness, as though it’s hiding something that might just bring this hell to an end. Then again, perhaps it’s just a case of hope springing eternal. Quite frankly, I neither know nor care. At least while it remains dark I can’t see the look of fear on Aya’s face.

“Schuldig! What is the meaning of this?” the man barks, a tremor of apprehension working its way into his voice. “You gave me your word that this, this *performance* of yours would go off without a hitch.”

“And more fool you for believing it,” a new voice, one that I haven’t heard before and that I think I can hear the slightest hint of a French accent in, comments mildly as fluorescent lights flicker on overhead.

The darkness banished as suddenly and as inexplicably as it arrived, I gaze around in amazement as it slowly sinks in that the entire tableaux in the workshop has changed. Despite neither hearing nor *sensing* their arrival, four new, unfamiliar men have slipped in to join the party. And, going on where they’ve positioned themselves, they appear -- please, please, please let it be so -- to be on our side.

One stands by the door, a small handgun held loosely in his right hand and pointed directly at Crawford’s head. In his early twenties and attractive, with his blue-black hair and fashionable, club going clothes, in a stereotypically bland sort of way, he gazes at the scene before him with a disinterested, almost bored expression on his face. Another, a bald Chinaman with enough facial piercings to make going through those metal detectors at airports an absolute nightmare, stands alongside Ken, his straight backed posture one of both alertness and protectiveness. Catching my eyes on him, he gives a curt nod before returning his gaze to dead in front of him. 

On the roof of the Rolls, and how I didn’t hear him landing is beyond me, crouches a man with shaggy blondish hair and who just happens to wearing the most lurid pair of red tartan trousers I’ve ever seen. Unlike his two friends, he’s grinning as though he’s actually pleased to be here and staring at Schuldig with a look of both utmost concentration and loathing in his eyes. 

If looks were capable of killing, Schuldig I honestly think would already be history. As it is though, he seems oblivious to the look of death being shot at him by the man on the Rolls and is intent on glaring ice-tipped daggers at the fourth man who’s standing -- running interference, by the looks of it -- between Aya and the wannabe Kimura. While vaguely similar in appearance to the club kid by the door, this man is seriously, in a take-your-breath-away-leave-you-feeling-weak-in-the-knees sort of way, attractive. In fact, with his dark violet eyes, pale skin and black-layered-over-purple hair, he’s almost a gothic version of Aya.

“You!” Schuldig spits, his calm, in control expression of earlier having been replaced by one of lip curling, cheek flushing rage. “Again! Again you have the nerve to interfere with…”

“Shut up, Schuldig,” the man interrupts matter-of-factly, flicking his gaze over to Kimura’s clone and nodding towards the Rolls. “Please, go,” he continues as, not needing telling twice, ‘Kimura’ backs away and, with obvious relief, starts to scurry towards his car.

“I don’t believe…”

Silencing Schuldig with the look to beat all looks, the man shakes his head and looks pointedly at the Rolls. “Unless you wish to become an exception to my self-imposed rule,” he murmurs, an expression of what looks to be disappointment flashing over his face as Nagi silently files past and catches up with ‘Kimura’, “cut your losses and leave while I’m still telling myself that it would be wrong to kill you.”

“Fuck you,” Schuldig retorts, snorting as he gestures expansively around the workshop. “There’s still only four of you and…”

“Look again,” the man, who I’m beginning to think may just be Schuldig’s arch nemesis, states mildly. “Your men no longer hold any weapons and, forgive me, but if they were to come to your aid would they have not made a move by now?”

My attention drawn so thoroughly to the newcomers, I realize that I’d forgotten about the minions and, tearing my gaze away from Schuldig, glance behind me. To my -- so, okay, my observation skills are currently shot to shit -- surprise, my minion is standing, blank faced and stunned looking, with his back against the wall while his gun is lying discarded on the ground by my feet. A quick look around the workshop shows that the same goes for all of the minions, that they’re all now weaponless and dazed and confused looking.

And, yeah… Just… *wow*. Whoever these guys are, they can fight on my side *any* day.

“This doesn’t end here,” Schuldig snarls, taking one, begrudging step away from the man as, everyone else having decided the time has come to get the fuck out of here, the Rolls starts to drive slowly towards the door. “You may have saved your pet and his new friends this time, but…”

“Mark my word, I’ll be back, bigger and better and blah, blah, blah,” the man finishes, sighing as he waves towards the car. “Speaking of friends, however, aren’t yours about to drive off and leave you here?”

“You heard him, Schuldig,” the blond man who’d been perched on the roof of the Rolls and who is now standing in the middle of the workshop, his gaze still burning a hole in the back of Schuldig’s head, comments drily. “Be a good boy and fuck off.”

“I’m going to remember this,” Schuldig mutters, spinning on his heels and striding towards the Rolls as it waits for him in the doorway. “Again, you might have won this time, but…”

“Finlay!” the man, who without even knowing his name has suddenly climbed to the top of my list of favorite people, calls out, once again blithely cutting Schuldig off mid threat. “I take it you saw what Schuldig just happens to be wearing around his neck?”

“Saw it, and I’m on to it,” Finlay, otherwise known as the man with the atrocious taste in trousers, replies with a grin as, with one graceful bound, he throws himself at the retreating German and quickly snatches Chloé’s cross from around his neck. “Tsk,” he mutters, shaking his head and grabbing a hold of Schuldig by the lapels of his jacket. “How many times have I had to tell you that you *can’t* have this, that it’s not yours and nor will it *ever* be yours…”

“Get your paws off me, you animal,” Schuldig replies, scowling defiantly into Finlay’s face. “You think I want the piece of junk anyway? All it’s good for is upsetting Rosebud.”

“Okay. That’s it,” Finlay retorts, holding onto Schuldig as though he were little more than a rag doll and slamming his knee hard between his legs. “That, incidentally,” he continues, hauling Schuldig back to his feet as tears of both impotent fury and pain well in his eyes, “was for Aya. This, however, is for Chloé.” Picking the now struggling German up with what just has to be inhuman strength, Finlay throws him towards the Rolls with such force that he hits the car like a lead weight.

Slumping, dazedly to the ground, Schuldig casts one last evil, ‘I’m so going to get you for this’ look over his shoulder before crawling into the backseat of the Rolls and collapsing across Nagi. The car then drives out of the workshop and, as though transfixed, I watch its taillights until they fully disappear from my line of sight

Then, the minions being trapped, somehow, in a non-moving world of their own and as such no longer being much of a threat, just like that, it’s all over.

Well. Sort of. In the immediate, life threatening sense anyway.

Although instinct makes we want to shake off my shock and bolt over to Aya, what little remains of my common sense tells me that he neither needs nor, and I’m quietly positive of this, wants me. And, what’s more, it’s not as though I can exactly blame him. Not only did I not protect him in any way, shape, or form, but I also scored myself my very own starring role in his Schuldig directed nightmare. Hell. Regardless of it having been totally out of my control, he probably hates my guts just about now and, yet again, there’s not a single solitary thing I can think of to do about it. The damage has been done. I stood by while he was all but molested, I pretty much agreed with Schuldig’s opinion that he ‘deserved’ it, and, just for the final nail in my coffin, my body decided that it *liked* seeing him so exposed and vulnerable.

Christ. I’ll be lucky if he ever even talks to me again.

“Hey, Keegan!” Finlay yells out, gesturing at the man by the door. “They gone?”

“Oh yeah,” Keegan confirms, giving me an appraising look as he strolls over, his eyes lingering on my open fly. “They didn’t even hit the brakes at the gate and just took off down the street.”

“Good,” Finlay replies, glancing at me with a concerned expression on his face. “What about you, are you okay?”

“Me?” I mutter, surreptitiously doing up my fly and shrugging. “See for yourself. I’m just peachy. I’m still wearing the clothes I left the house in and I’m not bleeding all over the concrete, so how can I be anything *other* than peachy?”

“Well, when you put it that way,” Finlay murmurs as, not looking convinced, he pulls a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket. Tipping out two, he lights both of them before handing one to me and sticking the other in his mouth. “Peachy or not, you look like you could do with one of these.”

“Thanks,” I respond, taking a long, much needed drag on the smoke and saluting Finlay with it. “Whoever you are, I think you may just be my hero.”

“Instead of standing around here flirting,” Keegan interjects tetchily, a look of disdain crossing his face as he glances past me to Chloé, “can we just go already, huh? We’ve done what we came here for so, you know, what’s keeping us here?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Finlay drawls, rolling his eyes first at me and then at his friend. “Perhaps, and I’ll understand if this is somewhat of an unknown concept to you, it has something to do with genuine concern for our fellow man, or…”

“Or the fact that we are now to stay with them,” another voice finishes as, Ken held carefully in his arms, the tall Chinaman walks across to join us. “I take it, as per usual, I might add, that you were not listening when this particular fact was stated in the car.”

“You what?” Keegan retorts, his face taking on the pouting, petulant look of a child who’s just been told they’re having a big bowl of tongue and leek stew for tea when they’d been planning on pizza. “Aaaw. You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. I didn’t know that. If I did do you honestly think I wouldn’t have fucking said something?”

“Can I help it if you suffer from selective hearing and choose not to listen to anything that does not directly revolve around you?” the Chinaman replies flatly, frowning at Keegan.

“Yeah, well, I’m kinda thinking here ain’t really the best place to be having this argument,” Finlay states, jumping in and playing the role of referee. “So, the both of you, just chill, okay? Kee, if you don’t like it then, right now, that’s just tough. You can bitch later, if you have to, but for now just shut it. As for you, Jin, let’s just move on and, well, how’s your friend there holding up?”

“He will be fine,” Jin replies, shaking his head as Keegan gives a huff of annoyance and, still clearly firmly ensnared in ‘brat’ mode, scuffs his foot sulkily along the concrete. “The bleeding has already stopped and, having had a look at it, I can report that the wound is a clean one.”

“You have no idea how relieved I am for him,” Keegan mutters, jamming his hands in the pockets of his jeans and starting to walk back towards the door. “Now, as gee-whiz fun as this is, if anyone’s looking for me I’ll be waiting in the car.”

“Think again,” Finlay retorts, smiling as Keegan spins around and glares at him. “What you’re actually going to do is drive one of the cars in here so we can load the injured into it without dragging them back outside in the night air.”

“So, what, I’m a chauffeur now, am…”

“Just do it,” Jin interrupts, the blunt tone of his voice being loud and forceful enough to both make Keegan flip the bird at him before stalking towards the door and to stir Ken, who opens his eyes and peers at me groggily. 

“Yohji?” Ken mumbles, glancing up at Jin and giving him a befuddled look that has a lot more to do with open curiosity that it does actual worry or, dare I say it, interest.

“It’s okay,” I murmur, holding my cigarette behind me so as not to risk blowing smoke into Ken’s eyes. “Believe it or not, it’s over. We’re… we’re safe.”

“Aya? What about Aya… and Chloé?” Ken whispers, grimacing in pain as Jin shifts him slightly in order to get a better hold on him. “Are they…”

“They’re… ah… fine,” I reply lightly, quickly -- biting the bullet -- turning around and, for the first time since the candles went out, glancing at Aya. “See… You can… ah… see for yourself.”

Now wearing his savior’s ankle length black woolen trench coat and standing there passively as the man fumbles over undoing the collar from around his neck, Aya looks straight back at me, his expression one of complete and irrefutable loathing. While not quite as deathly as the look Finlay was shooting at Schuldig earlier, it’s more than enough to make me feel like some sort of sewer dwelling life form a few evolutionary steps below that of a cockroach.

“Aya…” Stubbing my cigarette out under the heel of my boot, I take a tentative step towards him. “Aya… I… I’m sorry…”

Pointedly ignoring me, Aya nods his thanks as the man finally succeeds in getting his collar off and, as it’s falling, discarded, to the ground, slips past me to Chloé. Kneeling on the concrete, he pulls Chloé towards him and, each lost in the horror of what they’ve been through, they cling to each other like two frightened children.

“Well I’ll be…” Finlay comments with what sounds like surprise in his voice. “I never thought I’d see Chloé go to anyone like that who wasn’t Faith.”

“Faith?” I query dully, remembering Aya’s peculiar declaration of belief in the car and, tearing my gaze away from the crumpled, entwined form of that of my lover and one of my best friends, glancing at Keegan. “What do you mean… Faith?”

“Oh! Sorry. I thought you knew already,” Finlay replies, grinning as he gestures at the man who stared down Schuldig. “His name, it’s Faith.” 

~*~*~*~*~*~

“Is this a private ‘oh woe is me’ session or can anyone join in?” Finlay queries, wandering through the door from the living room and joining me on the patio. “Honestly, Yohji, while I don’t want you take this the wrong way or anything, you look, like, wrecked.”

“Given that my life is being sucked into a vortex of doom,” I retort as, swinging my legs off the table, I toast Finlay with my can of Bud. “I think I’ve pretty much earned the right to look wrecked, don’t you?”

“Do you want me to get the violins out now or can I save them for later?” Finlay drawls, helping himself to one of my cigarettes and settling himself in the chair opposite mine. “Believe it or not, none of this is actually your fault, you know… I mean, I can understand why it *feels* that way, but, trust me, you can’t blame yourself for any of it.”

“Try telling Aya that,” I mutter, pushing the ashtray into the middle of the table so Finlay can reach it. “You might have missed the main show but, and you can take my word for it, he hates me. And, you know what? He’s got every freakin’ right too. So… Yeah. I think I’ve got a damn good reason for sitting here looking wrecked.”

“If you say so,” Finlay murmurs as, shrugging, he looks away from me and glances around the dimly lit garden. “Man, you’ve got a nice base here,” he continues, changing the subject and gesturing towards the pond. “Any fish in that, or is it just for show?”

“There’s some midget ass fish in there,” I reply, taking a swig of beer before lighting another cigarette and leaning back in my chair. “They’re not Koi though and nor are they very exciting.”

“You don’t know that,” Finlay responds with a laugh, his mood apparently a few rungs up the ladder of happiness than mine is. “I’m sure to each other they’re more than exciting enough. Now, come on you, cheer up. Much more of looking at your moping expression and *I’m* going to end up depressed and, I’m telling you now, I don’t *do* depression.”

“Did I invite you to join me?” I sigh, pointing back in to the living room. “Hey, given that I’m perfectly capable of dealing with my own company, don’t let me stop you from returning inside and joining the party atmosphere in there.”

“Er… Thanks, but no thanks,” Finlay replies, shaking his head and pulling a face. “Keegan’s mood is worse than yours, Free and Jin are playing with the computers in the office, Ken’s zonked out on the sofa, and Faith, Chloé and Aya are holed up in one of the bedrooms. In other words, unless I want to put up with Kee snarling at me or get put to work in the office, you, my friend, are as good as it currently gets.”

“Stop it, you’re making me feel all warm inside,” I mutter, looking across at Finlay and rolling my eyes. “I mean, shit… If I’m as good as it gets then, sorry, you’re *really* starved for entertainment.”

“And you’re *really* entrenched in feeling sorry for yourself,” Finlay responds calmly, refusing, apparently, to be brought down by my dour mood. “Seriously, Yohji, you need to cheer up. You’re all alive and safe and, I’m sorry, if that isn’t enough of a reason to feel chipper about things then I don’t know what is. Yes, you’ve had a crap day, and, yes, a couple of you are injured, but, hell, it could have been worse.”

“Again, trying telling that to Aya,” I retort with a snort, wishing Finlay would leave me alone but, like him, not actually wanting to get up and return inside myself. “Or Chloé. You’re supposed to be Chloé’s friend, yeah? Well, how do you think he’s feeling right now, huh? I don’t know what he looked like to you but he looked pretty fucked to me.”

“Chloé will be fine,” Finlay replies, reaching across the table and, not content with purloining one of my smokes, curling his hand around my second can of Bud. “He’s safe and, ignoring Keegan for a second, he’s surrounded by friends who will do anything they can to help him. Same goes for Aya. They’ve been through a lot, yeah, but surely even you can see that things are already looking up for them. They’re safe, for God’s sake, and they’re both here. Barring a wish granting genie materializing out of this can of Bud here that could erase the past seven or so hours, I don’t know what it is you freakin’ expect.”

“You weren’t there for what Schuldig put Aya through and you wouldn’t understand,” I murmur tetchily, grinding my cigarette out in the ashtray and, instead of immediately lighting another one, drumming my fingers on the packet. “He… Fuck! Just forget it. I’m miserable because Chloé and Ken are injured and because I’ve hurt Aya in a way that I doubt he’ll ever forgive me for.”

“You’re putting words into Aya’s mouth for him,” Finlay replies, popping the tab on the Bud and, bringing the can to his mouth, taking a long swallow from it. “You can tell me that I don’t know him, that I wouldn’t know what I was fucking talking about, but until you talk to him you don’t *know* how he’s going to react either. Right now he’s in shock and he’s hurting, for sure, but he’ll recover and, again, I just think you’re second guessing him.”

“And I think the only thing you’re right about there is that you wouldn’t know what you were fucking talking about,” I mutter, sighing. “Look, Finlay, I’m grateful to you and the others for stepping in and rescuing us like you did, and I’m honestly glad that you’re sticking around for a bit but, please, I just don’t want to talk at the moment.”

“Fine,” Finlay grins, his predominantly happy-go-lucky persona not at all dinted by my dismissal of his company. “Mope if you want to mope then. God knows I don’t want to stand in the way of a good wallow in self-pity,” he continues, standing up and, with my can of beer still in his hand, starting to make his way inside. “If you change your mind, well, I’ll be around.”

“Thanks,” I murmur, lifting my right hand and giving him a little wave. “Who knows, if it gets too cold out here I may just end up taking you up on your offer.”

“You do that,” Finlay replies, glancing over his shoulder and smiling before slipping through the door and, after hesitating for a couple of seconds, heading off in the direction of the kitchen.

Relieved to be alone again, I swing my legs back up onto the table, light another smoke, and stare out into the garden. Although, in a sense, Finlay’s totally right in that things are nowhere near as bad as they could have been, I still can’t fight the feeling that the damage that has been done this time is so great that there’s no chance of it ever being fully repaired.

Aya…

Yes, well. I don’t care what brand of logic Finlay’s using, he’s wrong about Aya’s reaction to my betrayal being open to debate. He has to be. I know Aya and I have been through a lot together, but this, this just has to be the final straw. Even if we were both under Schuldig’s influence it doesn’t alter the facts of what went down, of what Aya both heard and saw. To him, I was turned on by his debasement and that, really, is just all there is to it. Instead of protecting him I merely added a new, distinctly personal component to his ordeal, one that will last far longer than any of the rest of it ever will.

Other than that though, hey, all’s well that fucking ends well. We all live to fight another day. Hip-hip-hoo-fucking-ray for us.

But, yeah… Okay. Things still could have been worse.

Ken’s wound isn’t as bad as it looked and, so long as he doesn’t put any undue strain on it for the next couple of days and rests, it should, according to the doctor who looked it over, be as good as new in no time. Chloé… Well. I know he’s… back… and being looked after by both Aya and the very mysterious and very cool Faith. Other than that however I wouldn’t have a clue as to how he’s holding up. As much as I’d like to check on him for myself, the thought of unwittingly upsetting Aya -- or, and this is just about as bad, giving him an opportunity to cut me down with another one of his hurt, offended looks -- by daring to poke my head through the door kind of stops me.

Free and Singapura, thankfully, are both okay and had a perfectly uneventful afternoon poking around into known, past associates of Ewigkeit. The reason we hadn’t been able to get in contact with either them was solely because their phones had run out of charge. That’s all. They weren’t missing or in danger. No. They were simply unreachable because -- suspiciously -- their mobile phones had decided today would be as good a day as any to go on strike. No one’s buying the coincidence of it just having to have happened when we really needed to get in contact with them but, as with so many things, there’s not really a damn thing we can do about it now. All that essentially matters is that they are both all right.

We were all just played today and played good. End of story.

Shifting position slightly in order to be able to reach my beer, I see Finlay walk back into the living room and mentally cross my fingers that he just keeps going and doesn’t decide to return outside. Despite only having just met him, I like Finlay, I really do, but right now I’m just not in the mood for company. If only I had somewhere else to go -- or could go off on my own without either putting myself at risk or causing others to worry about me -- I’d be out of here like a shot. Sadly though, as both of these prerequisites for leaving are very much currently out of my reach, I’m stuck here and, as per fucking usual, there’s not a lot I can really do about it.

His eyes meeting mine, Finlay shakes his head and walks across to the sofa. Bending down, he either takes Ken’s temperature or strokes his cheek, I can’t really tell for sure given that I’m looking at the back of sofa, before straightening up and moving across the room to where Keegan is -- taking his frustrations out on the Playstation -- lying on his stomach in front of the television. After pausing there long enough to, by the looks of it, score a mouthful of complaint from Keegan, he shrugs casually and heads off in the direction of the office.

Relieved at being left alone with my misery, I take a mouthful of beer and return my gaze to the dark stillness of the garden.

Rosary. 

That’s the name of Faith’s team, the name Finlay told me in the car with obvious pride and the name Free stated with cool indifference when he saw that it was Finlay who’d driven me back. Although too intent on sharing my own news with him -- “Oh my God! Schuldig’s killed Mystique and… and possibly everyone else at the compound as well!” -- at the time, I wish now that I could have got Free’s opinion on Rosary before panicking him and sending him fleeing back into the house. I’m fairly confident, given that they’re still here and wandering around as though they’ve *always* been here, that he can’t have any *major* issues with them, but, I don’t know, I can’t shake the feeling that there’s just something someone’s not telling me.

I know, thanks to Finlay’s happy chattering -- and I swear the man could talk under water -- that Rosary are, like Chloé and Free, ex-Rosenkrus and that there’s far, *far* more to them than meets the eye. In terms of their arrival at the wreckers, Jin, who can manipulate fire, was the one who caused the candles to flare before extinguishing them, while Faith single handedly -- or perhaps that should be *mindedly* -- controlled both the minions and their weapons. If I heard Finlay correctly, and there’s a good chance that I didn’t seeing as I was already feeling pretty damn sorry for myself by that stage and was only half listening, Faith is Rosenkrus’ dream child. Telepathic, telekinetic - if it can possibly be controlled by the mind then, not a problem, he can do it. Unfortunately for the Rosenkrus PTB however he refuses to be their lackey and, despite all their best efforts to contain him, only uses his powers for good.

Or something like that.

When, my interest piqued by the actual specifics of his powers, I asked Finlay to elaborate, he muttered something about maybe telling me later and changed the topic to Keegan. Keegan, despite having done nothing at the wreckers apart from turning the lights on and issuing forth with a few sarcastic comments, is Faith’s younger brother and his extra special party trick is that he can assume the identity of anyone he pleases. Apparently, if we want to get technical, he possesses the ability of illusion and can make those around him believe they’re looking at someone they know whereas, in reality, they’re not. It sounds like a load of bollocks to me but, well, seeing as everything else Finlay said seems to hold true, I suppose it has to be -- fantastical and far fetched or not -- genuine. I’ll still believe it only when I see it for myself though.

Finlay, and this explains nicely how he was able to pick Schuldig up as though he weighed next to nothing and throw him at the Rolls, for his part, is simply extraordinary strong and fast. While you wouldn’t exactly think it to look at him, he’s the team’s resident fighter and is yet to lose a fight. He’s also from Scotland and speaks the strongest Scottish accented Japanese that I’ve ever heard which, even in my current state, is something I find quaintly amusing.

Ultimately, their unknown factor and Free’s almost snooty reaction aside, it has to be said that I can find no reason to distrust Rosary. They’re odd -- but, hey, like the rest of us aren’t in our own ways -- and I still have no freakin’ idea how they knew to swoop in and save the day like they did, but, all in all, I think having them on our side can only be viewed as a positive.

Let’s face it, if nothing else they can hardly make things any worse than they already are.

The sound of someone stepping out on to the patio making me reluctantly turn around, I find Free walking towards me with a number of A4 sheets of paper in his hand and bite back a sigh. “Before you say anything, yes, I know I look like I feel,” I mutter, shrugging as, once again, I swing my legs off the table. “Oh, and if you’re going to lecture me on the fact the glass is more half full than it is half empty, I’m telling you now that you may as well save your breath.”

“I merely wish to show you these photographs, that is all,” Free replies, placing his sheets -- of what I can now see are glossy photo paper -- on the table and spreading them out before me. “If, however, I wished to lecture you then I would lecture you.”

“Of course you would,” I murmur, knowing beyond all doubt that he would too and that there wouldn’t be a damn thing I could do about it. “But, hey, moving on from me… What are the photographs of and why do I need to see them?”

“If you were to look at them I think it would be obvious,” Free responds, giving me what I think passes for his ‘my God, pull yourself together and get with the program’ look. “Unless, too caught up in your own perceived misery, you have already forgotten your fears about the others, I thought you might like to see these in order to put your mind at rest.”

“What oth…” Trailing off, I slap myself on the side of the head and give Free an apologetic look. Fuck. While he may not have actually said it, he’s right in that I *so* have to wake up and get with it. The others being, of course, Yuki and Michel. Or, as my addled brain saw fit to share it, ‘*Mystique* and, like, you know, those other humans we live and work with’.

“It is becoming clearer to you, yes?” Free queries mildly, spreading the photos further out. “As you can see, everyone is quite safe. Schuldig was simply toying with you.”

“That bastard’s a…” Stopping myself from wasting my breath on yet another futile, expletive laden diatribe, I sigh and turn my attention to the photographs. 

Clearly posed for in a way guaranteed to put everyone’s mind to rest, Yuki and Michel stare back at me in full color from the glossy paper. In his right hand Yuki holds a newspaper dated with today’s date and draped across his left arm and looking decidedly displeased about it is Tantomile. Mystique, who incidentally doesn’t look any more pleased about having to pose for photographs than Tantomile does, clings to Michel’s shoulder while Snowball, who actually looks to be fast asleep, is curled in a ball at his feet.

A quick flick through all the photographs shows only the slightest variations on the same pose -- Yuki scowling, Michel wincing as Mystique digs her claws into his shoulder -- while the last one, the one at the bottom of the pile, actually makes me laugh out loud. The life of a model apparently not being to their liking, the photo shows Tantomile and Mystique, tails extended arrogantly, strolling with intent away from the camera and it’s a scene that’s just so familiar to me that I’m suddenly struck by how much I’m missing their demanding, domineering presence. 

“I thought that you would like that one,” Free comments, moving the picture of the cats to the front before tidying the photos into a neat pile. “There is another photo that shows them sleeping but it is this one I feel that shows their true character.”

“Oh, and it shows it perfectly too,” I snicker, the fact that I’m deriving amusement from a picture of two stuck-up felines not entirely being lost on me. “Actually, all the photos are great and, oh God, it has to go without saying that I’m just so relieved that everyone is okay. When he… When Schuldig implied that he was… wearing… Mystique all I could think of was…”

“As anyone would have if they had been in your shoes,” Free interrupts, frowning in apparent concentration as he glances down at the photographs. “While it was perhaps wrong of me,” he continues after a moment of contemplative silence, “I have not told either Michel or Yuki of what has occurred today. Mihirogi, I have told, and she in turn will inform KR, but I thought given Ken’s injury and… the state… Chloé and Aya are both in that knowing would only worry them unnecessarily. I am telling you this in the hope you will not inadvertently let the truth slip next time you are in contact with them.”

“Oh, trust me, not talking about today is something I’m not going to have a problem with,” I murmur drily. “Hell, if I only could I’d like nothing more than to add it to the rest of the black hole that makes up the majority of my memories. Just… Forget it. It’s not something I want to think about let alone *talk* about.”

“As I am sure someone has already told you, it could have been far worse,” Free replies, placing his hand on my shoulder and squeezing it. “We are, after all, all safe and surely that has to count for something.”

“You been taking optimism lessons for Finlay or something?” I mutter with a dull snort. “If not, then, and no offence meant here, you can save your breath as he’s already given me a pep talk on how things are, really, when you look at it, okay.”

“And if you were to think about it clearly for a moment you would see that he is right,” Free responds, taking his hand away from my shoulder and picking the photos up from the table. “Everyone is alive and…”

“And Aya hates me,” I sigh, cutting him off. “What’s more…”

“He has said this in as many words?” Free queries, raising his eyebrow as he looks down at me. “You may have convinced yourself that Aya hates you, but have you any proof?”

“You didn’t see the look he gave me when it was all over,” I whisper, picking up my beer and draining the last of the can in one gulp. “Honestly, Free, if you’d seen it you wouldn’t be wasting your time trying to make me see the bright side. He hates me. Just take my word for it.”

“No. I will not take your word for it,” Free responds very much matter-of-factly. “Aya may have looked at you with hatred in his eyes but have you stopped to consider that he may solely have done so because he was in shock and because he is sick? If he had been in better health and if Chloé had not been crumpled at his feet, perhaps he would have seen through Schuldig’s game and reacted differently. You know Aya, yes, but you can not answer for him.”

“It’s okay, you know,” I mutter, putting the can down and giving a dismissive wave of my hand. “I don’t *blame* Aya for hating me or anything. It’s just something I’ve got to somehow come to terms with, that’s all.”

“Then Schuldig’s power over you both lingers on when, really, it should not,” Free replies, sighing as he starts to walk towards the door. “Think about it, Yohji. If his aim was to unsettle you and fill you with doubts then he has succeeded admirably. In fact, he not only enticed you into his trap but he still holds you there.”

“I…” Damn. While Schuldig may be my current number one hate, coolly presented logic has to come a close second.

“Having shown you that which I wished to, I will leave you to your thoughts,” Free murmurs, pausing in the doorway and giving me a pitying look over his shoulder. “Things are not all bad, Yohji, and deep down you know that yourself. All you now have to do is accept and move on.”

“You’ll be the first to know when I do,” I murmur, closing my hand around the empty beer can and crushing it out of shape as I watch Free walk into the living room. Stopping by the sofa, he bends down and does something -- just like Finlay did -- to Ken with his hand before continuing out of the room and heading back in the direction of the office.

Alone again, I scowl down at the mangled Bud can and, because I can and because I feel I’m becoming incredibly good at it, sigh heavily.

Damn, damn, damn!

Not only is Free right about the way I’m pandering to Schuldig’s will but, Goddamn it, thanks to being too caught up in my ‘Aya hates me’ lament I also neglected to try and pump him for the inside story on Rosary. 

Go me, I don’t freakin’ think.

Deciding that the time has come for another beer or three, I stand up and start to make my way over to the door. Reaching it, I’m about to step inside when, looking clearly exhausted, Faith walks into the living room and makes a beeline for Ken. Like Finlay and Free before him, he bends down and does something to Ken before smoothing the blanket over him and walking towards the door that leads to the office. Keegan jerks his head up from his game and says something -- no doubt a complaint of some sort -- but Faith doesn’t even bother glancing in his brother’s direction and simply keeps going.

Seeing my opportunity to mount a snatch ‘n’ grab run on the fridge while everyone else is otherwise occupied, I slip into the living room and head for the kitchen, the cans of Bud I know to be there calling my name. Entering the corridor though, my priorities inexplicably change and, before I know it, I’m sneaking, quite literally on tiptoe, towards the bedrooms. 

Nearing the bedroom I’m supposedly sharing with Aya -- and I say supposedly because in the three nights he’s been here I only spent the first one actually in it with him -- I baulk at poking my head through the door for fear of what may be lying in wait for me and come to a sudden, frozen in time, stop.

Christ! What the hell do I think I’m doing?

Beer. I want beer. Not more cause for grief, *beer*.

Honestly. There’s just no fucking help for it. I’m an idiot. An idiot, in fact, who shouldn’t be allowed out on his own and who should be under the protective care of a minder at all times.

“You need not sneak around on either Aya’s or Chloé’s behalf as they are both sound asleep,” Faith comments softly, joining me in the corridor and, because -- too entrenched in mentally berating myself -- I so very much wasn’t expecting him, very nearly giving me a heart attack in the process. “Yohji? Are you okay?” he continues, his large violet eyes radiating concern as he looks at me, his hand hovering over my elbow as though he’s not quite sure whether he should touch me or not. “If I somehow frightened you then I apologize.”

“You just… ah… startled me slightly, that’s all,” I mutter, running my fingers nervously through my hair and, not wanting to meet Faith’s gaze because the last thing I want is for him to see straight through me, settling for staring at an oh-so-fascinating point on the wall just to left of his head. “I was just… er… wanting a different coat from the bedroom and didn’t want to… ah… interrupt anything,” I add hurriedly, hoping he takes my hardly imaginative lie at face value and just, basically, leaves me to it.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Faith replies, an expression of surprise crossing his face as, shaking his head, he glances towards the bedroom door. “You share that room with Aya, don’t you? I’m… Again, I’m sorry. I didn’t even think and will move Chloé immediately. If I’m careful I should be able to do so without waking him.”

“Huh, what?” I grunt, curiosity as to what Faith’s getting at making me -- cautiously and with extreme reluctance -- turn my head to meet his concerned gaze. “Move Chloé where? I don’t know what you’re talking about. Why do you have to move him?”

“Because he’s in your bed,” Faith responds slowly, giving me the kind of look teachers save for their dimmest witted students. “Forgive me, please. I honestly should have known and will rectify things immediately. Chloé, he has his own room, yes? If you could just show me to…”

“Leave him,” I sigh, cutting Faith off mid apologetic ramble and giving an easy, unbothered shrug. “If Chloé’s sleeping with Aya then… just leave him. Not only am I not tired and have no intention of going to bed any time soon, but, well, I’m sure it’s what they’d both want anyway. At least… You know… At least this way we know they’re safe and… ah… comfortable.”

“You are right on both of those counts,” Faith agrees, his expression -- to my dismay, I might add -- changing to one of interest, as though he’s suddenly found cause to view me in a new light. “But… Aya, is he not…”

“While I don’t know what the full deal is with you, you can cut this uncertain, curious crap as I know you’re more than capable of reading my mind and finding out everything there is to know about any of us,” I interrupt, scowling at Faith and, folding my arms across my chest, leaning back against the wall. “No offence, and I don’t want to piss you off or anything, but, come on, I’ve been jerked around enough for one day and I’m not really in the mood to go a few rounds with you just to finish it off.”

“You’re right, if I wanted to I could get the answers from your mind,” Faith confirms softly, his calm, unreadable expression giving nothing away as to whether I’ve offended him or not. “The thing is, Yohji, I do not want to. My powers set me apart, yes, but essentially I am just human and that is how I prefer to live my life. If you do not want to answer my questions or even speak to me then, please, don’t be afraid to say so. I am, after all, but a guest in your temporary home, an uninvited guest at that.”

Having been firmly -- but politely -- put back in my place, I unfold my arms and sigh. “Sorry,” I murmur, extending my right hand towards Faith and waiting for him to take it. “I’m Yohji,” I add once he’s placed his smooth, cool hand in mine, “and, while you mightn’t believe it given the way I’m carrying on, I’m very pleased to meet you.”

“I’m Faith,” he replies, smiling as he shakes my hand. “And, having heard so much about you from Chloé, I’m very pleased to meet you too.” Pausing, Faith releases my hand and grins cheekily. “Mind you, I have to say you’re not quite as… unkempt and uncouth as I was led to believe…”

“Ah, I think you’re mistaking me with Ken,” I reply with a laugh as straightening up, I affect a miffed stance. “Either way, I think I’m going to have to have words with Chloé when he’s feeling better.”

“No, I’m sure he was referring to you,” Faith responds, smirking as he starts to move towards the bedroom door. “Ken’s description consisted more of the terms boisterous, annoying, and foul mouthed. Now, come… As I mentioned a moment ago, both Aya and Chloé are fast asleep but, please, if you wish to see for yourself that they are both indeed okay then you do not have to hesitate on mine or anyone else’s account.”

“I don’t need…” Ah. Fuck it. Why deny it? Given that I’m almost as worried about Chloé as I am about Aya, of course I want to see them. 

“I’d like that, actually,” I reply quietly, walking over to Faith and, closing my hand lightly around his shoulder, stopping him from walking straight into the room. “What I said before though, it still stands. Leave Chloé where he is. While, yes, Aya and I are… together… there’s something between the two of them that I don’t even think they fully understand or even… ah… acknowledge and, well, I just think it would be for the best if we left them together for the time being.”

“Despite only having just met, we’re both in the same boat, you and I,” Faith replies, cryptically, placing his hand over mine and squeezing it before pulling away and walking through the door. “That aside, you are right and I agree entirely. For tonight at least, as they struggle to put Schuldig’s mind games behind them, they honestly need each other more than they need either of us.”

“Well, that’s kinda what I was thinking,” I murmur, following Faith into the bedroom and gravitating over to the foot of the bed. Courtesy of both bedside lamps being on, it’s easy to see the two sleeping bodies in the bed and, oddly, as I look at them, Aya on his back, his arm draped around Chloé, who’s curled on his side around him, I don’t feel the slightest hint of jealousy. I feel rage at the sight of the angry red abrasions around Chloé’s wrists, and I hate how Aya looks as sick as he did twenty-four hours ago, but other than that the main emotion I get from the image before me is one of both relief and peace. I don’t *care* that it’s Chloé who’s in bed with Aya because they’re both safe and because, just as Faith said, it’s clear that they need each other. 

I could, if he’d let me and if both Finlay and Free are correct in that he doesn’t hate me as much as a small part of me still thinks he has to, look after Aya and attempt to comfort him, but it wouldn’t be the same. While I have history over Chloé I’m beginning to think he has something -- which I neither want nor really even want to know the full details of -- over me in the form of what he’s been through and how it correlates with what Aya himself has been through. I could be wrong, but whether this is my one great brainwave for the week or month or whatever, I just don’t think that I am. They’re both survivors of something that sets them slightly apart and makes them lean towards each other. And, because I care for both of them and because it works, I really wouldn’t want to change it even if I could.

“Looking at them,” Faith whispers, joining me at the foot of the bed, “don’t you agree that everything else, our own feelings and petty jealousies, simply pale into insignificance? Even if it is thanks to a combination of sheer exhaustion and sedatives to keep the nightmares at bay, they’re both at peace. And, really, isn’t that the most important thing?”

“Of course it is,” I reply quietly, the unwelcome sensation of feeling like a voyeur settling over me and making me want to back out of the room as fast as my legs will carry me. “Come on, let’s just let them…” Trailing off, I watch with mounting astonishment as a lump under the comforter, a lump that I’d actually thought to be Aya’s foot, begins to weave its way across the mattress. “Um… What the…?”

“Ah! There she is!” Faith exclaims, shaking his head and grinning as he crouches down by Chloé’s side of the bed and, to my decided bemusement, carefully lifts up the bedding and peers under it. “I’d wondered where she’d got to.”

“Where *who’d* got to?” I query tentatively as I wander over to stand behind Faith. “More to the point, do I even want to know?”

“Given that you live with three of the contrary creatures back in London, possibly not,” Faith murmurs, reaching under the bedding and, after a few seconds of groping around, pulling out a small, disheveled looking tortoiseshell kitten. “See?” he adds, carefully holding the kitten with one hand as he stands up and smoothes down the comforter. “Jin found her at the wreckers hiding in a tire. Although he searched the entire place for any others before returning here, she’s the only survivor. Normally I make him pass on his… finds… but in this case I just thought… Well, I’m sure you know what I thought and why I couldn’t bring myself to let her go.”

“I think I can hazard a guess,” I respond, smiling at Faith as the kitten yawns daintily and blinks tiny golden eyes at me. “Who knows though, perhaps if we’re lucky this one’s temperament will take more after the docile Snowball’s than the other two hellcats and may actually prove to be pleasant to live with.”

“We can… Aaargh!” His train of thought being negated by sharp teeth suddenly embedding themselves into his thumb, Faith hurriedly places the kitten back on the bed and, laughing softly, shakes his head. “Okay, fine,” he mutters, showing me his thumb and the itty-bitty puncture marks in it, “perhaps not then. Sorry, Yohji. Looks like you’ve just scored yourself either a Mystique or Tantomile junior.”

“And there I was thinking my life already sucked,” I reply blithely, watching as the kitten begins to fastidiously groom -- ack! Human germs! Unclean, unclean! -- herself. “Actually… Aaw. To hell with it. Even if she is a queen bitch in the making, I’m pleased that she’s here and just know she’s going to be greeted and welcomed with both instant affection and indulgence from everyone she meets.”

“That’s what I was kind of thinking,” Faith replies, peering at his injured thumb and sighing. “I tell you something though, she’s got some work to do before she makes it back into my good books.”

“Don’t tell me you’re deluded enough to think your opinion actually matters a damn to her?” I mutter, laughing as the kitten, as though on cue, stares directly at Faith for a moment before extending her back leg and proceeding to thoroughly lick her nether regions. “See? As I was saying…”

“Great,” Faith murmurs as, with a roll of his eyes, he starts to walk towards the door. “Having been so firmly put in my place by… a kitten that should consider itself incredibly lucky, if you ask me… I think the time has come for us to take our leave. I mean, we don’t want to risk polluting the air with our continued presence now, do we?”

“A word of advice,” I snicker, taking one last look at the bed and its inhabitants before trailing after Faith. “Sarcasm is wasted on a cat. Trust me. I know this for a fact.”

“Given the never ending parade of them that Jin floats under my nose, you’d think I’d know that by now too,” Faith replies, waiting for me to step into the corridor before pulling the door half-shut and leaning wearily against the wall. “Still… Like you though, I’m pleased that he was able to rescue her and…” Pausing, Faith twirls one of the longish strands of hair that frame each side of his face around his finger and smiles wanly. “Sorry. Thinking about where she came from led me to thinking about Schuldig and how, despite all the time that has passed, he’s still using his old tried and true method of getting at Chloé. You’d almost think… Never mind. When it comes to Schuldig it doesn’t pay to think at all. Despite being a creature of sick and twisted habit, he’s still a law entirely unto himself and always will be.”

“Is the insanity real or just a damn good act?” I query, resting my back against the wall opposite Faith and, wanting to be assured that he’s telling me the truth, watching him closely. “As you… ah… probably either knew already or have heard, I pretty much can’t remember squat about my Weiss days and, well, as far as I’m concerned tonight was my first run in with the bastard.”

“And some run in it was too,” Faith replies drily, folding his arms across his chest and hugging himself as though he’s suddenly cold. “To answer your question though… Hell. I honestly don’t know. He’s always been sadistic, and I swear he’s got enough personality disorders to keep an army of shrinks entertained for decades, but I think, despite the way he behaves and the shows he puts on, that he still possesses enough control and ambition to keep him from being classed as classically insane. That said, if you asked me whether he was a psychopath I’d have to answer an unconditional yes.”

“Chloé…” Not wanting to be hit with a load of details that I’m sure I don’t really want to know, I decide to change tack slightly and try again. “Um… He’ll be okay, yeah? I know he’s pretty messed up because of what was done to the kittens and everything, but he will be all right, won’t he?”

“He’ll be fine,” Faith confirms softly, nodding as he looks across at me through troubled eyes. “So long as he’s not left to his own devices and is constantly reminded that he’s not alone, he’ll pick up in no time. What Schuldig did to him is sick but, and I hate, absolutely loathe saying this, it’s nothing that he hasn’t survived before. He just needs to know that we’re all here for him and I’m confident that he’ll be fine.”

“Good,” I murmur, looking away from Faith and, because it’s been a few minutes since I’ve checked them out, feigning fascination with my shoes. “I… I hope the same will go for Aya…”

“It will,” Faith replies simply, pushing himself away from the wall and coming over to stand next to me. “You’re not to blame yourself for any of this, you know,” he continues, draping his arm around my shoulders and surprising me by hugging me against him. “If you do you’ll not only make things worse for every one but you’ll also increase the risk of Schuldig being able to pull off a repeat of today. I know it’s easy for me to say, but you’ve got to both listen and believe me, none of this, not Chloé’s abduction, not what Aya was made to endure, not any of it, is your fault.”

“But…” Unable to either look up and meet Faith’s eyes *or* pull away from the comforting weight of his arm around my shoulder, I shake my head dully and release a deep, pent up breath. “Regardless of any of it actually being my fault or not, *I* feel as though it is and… and I hate it! I hate feeling as though I failed every one, that my being here has only…”

“And this is exactly what Schuldig was hoping you’d feel,” Faith interrupts, releasing me only to position himself directly in front of me and closing both of his hands forcefully on my shoulders. “If you feel like this, if you doubt yourself and waste your time second guessing Aya and worrying about everyone else, you’re as good as useless, a dead weight in a team that needs everyone operating at the best of their abilities.”

“Come on, Faith. Saying it’s one thing, but…”

“No! Uh-uh. Absolutely no buts,” Faith states vehemently as, apparently warming to his lecture, he digs his fingers into my shoulders. “Do you know why Schuldig was able to manipulate all of you like he did today, huh? While, yes, his powers *have* unfortunately increased, he still wouldn’t have been able to… play… you all like he did if not for the fact you were all already either emotionally weak or physically unwell.”

“Huh? What are you talking about?” I query, lifting my head and staring directly into Faith’s incredible violet eyes. “Are you saying that Schuldig was somehow controlling our actions?”

“Yes, of course he was,” Faith replies, loosening his death grip slightly on my shoulders and returning my gaze without blinking. “Why else do you think you all calmly walked into a trap? You all knew it had to be a trap but not even that stopped you from either hesitating or approaching it more cautiously. Surely, now that you come to think about it, that strikes you as just a tad foolhardy?”

“We were worried about Chloé,” I murmur as a vague, barely formed glimmer of hope begins to form within my mind. Could Faith be right? Could Schuldig have somehow been manipulating our choices? “We had to go. We had no other choice.”

“You’re right, you had no other choice,” Faith replies, taking his hands away from my shoulder but making no move to step back. “And the reason you had no other choice was because Schuldig was, with just the barest of nudges, guiding your decisions. He didn’t plant the idea of going to the wreckers in your minds, but he kept it there. Just as he was able to control Aya in the workshop and make you feel as though you were honestly being turned on by what he was doing to him. Yohji… I don’t say this because I’m in love with the sound of my own voice or because I’d do anything to cheer you up, I say it because it’s the truth. You weren’t aroused by the sight of Aya looking so vulnerable and, still having his memories of how Schuldig operates, he knows it.”

“You must have missed the look of hatred he gave me then,” I whisper, still staring at Faith with what I suspect has to be undisguised hope in my eyes. “Aya… He…”

“He was in shock and most likely still feeling the aftereffects of having Schuldig as an uninvited guest in his mind,” Faith finishes calmly. “Don’t forget, Yohji, that Aya is sick and isn’t operating any where near at his best. He’s sick and, because he’s sick, he’s an easy target. Just as -- the murder of your wife and your concerns about both Aya and your ability to be useful making you doubt yourself every second of the day -- you are. Please, don’t take this the wrong way or anything, but right now you’re right and you *are* no use to anyone. I *know* it’s all very well saying this to you and you’ve got every right to tell me to butt out or that I wouldn’t know if my ass was on fire, but, seriously, you need to think outside of your box.”

“So what you’re basically saying, in a totally round about sort of way, is don’t worry, be happy?” I mutter with a derisive snort of disbelief. “Granted, it’s a lovely thought, but, hell… Barring an intravenous shot of Prozac I wouldn’t even know where to start.”

“It’s actually easy,” Faith replies, taking a step back from me and smiling coaxingly. “You just need to prioritize yourself. To put it another way, do you want to live in the past with your inner demons making you too afraid to make the most of the present, or do you want to live each day as it comes with an eye on the future? Your wife is dead, Aya is being targeted by some lunatic who seems to think he’s the reincarnation of Kimura, Omi is still missing but, come on, given that none of that’s your fault you just have to make the decision to deal with it and move on.”

Deal with it. Move on.

And, yes, while it’s easy for Faith to say, he may just nonetheless be right.

Smart ass.

“Ever thought of taking up inspirational speaking?” I respond, smiling as I nod and give a casual ‘I give up’ shrug. “If not, I bet you could make big bucks touring the American lecture and chat show circuit.”

“Is that your cryptic way of saying something I’ve said has managed to get through to you?” Faith responds, clapping his hands together softly. “If so, I think my work is now done. If not, however, well, you’ll just have to give me some time to regroup before I come at you again as, believe it or not, I am actually pretty much working blind here.”

“If that’s the case then, please, I beg of you now, never ever come at me prepared,” I grin, reaching out and clasping my hand around Faith’s shoulder. “Thank you, though. I’m not saying I’m about to start throwing streamers or planning a ‘return to form’ party but, yeah, you’re right. I need to wake up to myself.”

“And you will,” Faith murmurs, lifting my hand away from his shoulder and slowly beginning to make his way towards the kitchen. “While not exactly what you’d call a pleasant conversation, I have enjoyed talking to you Yohji and am glad, however minor it may have been, to have been of some assistance to you.”

“Screw me,” I report, following Faith down the corridor. “As grateful as I am to you for our little chat, it’s nothing compared to how I’m… *we’re*… forever in your debt for your immaculate timing at the garage. If you and the others hadn’t arrived when you did, I…”

“It is in the past,” Faith whispers, cutting me off as he pauses in the doorway to the kitchen. “So, please, forget it. We are here as friends who wish to help you, not because we wish for you to be in our debt.”

“Whatever,” I mutter, watching Faith give an airy, dismissive gesture with his hand before blushing and disappearing into the kitchen. “You’re still on the top of my Christmas card list,” I add quietly, knowing full well that I’m talking to myself but not really finding it in myself to care much.

Not quite knowing what to do with my new improved -- ‘hell, yeah, of course the glass is half full!’ -- self, I step into the living room and, finding Ken sitting up and looking groggy on the sofa, meander over to join him. The sound of my footsteps somehow managing to permeate the thick, drug induced fog in his head, he looks up as I approach and blinks owlishly.

“Hey.”

“Hey yourself,” I reply, sitting down on the sofa next to him and very nearly recoiling from the strong, almost putrid stench coming from the ointment covering his wound. It’s so bad that it makes the incense Free had been burning in the bedroom smell like Chanel No. 5. “How are you feeling?”

His brows furrowing in concentration, Ken dwells on this brain teaser for a moment before nodding. “Groovy,” he murmurs. “I feel groovy.”

“Groovy, huh?” I respond, trying not to laugh as it becomes crystal clear that whatever the drugs were the doctor gave him to numb the pain were clearly the good shit.

“Mmm… Groovy.”

Scarily, I think I’m getting a snapshot of what Ken would have been like if he’d been part of the Seventies stoner -- ‘Like, make love not war, man.’ -- generation. 

“Nice doctor gave you nice drugs, yes?” I query, smirking as I give him an incredibly gentle poke in the ribs with my elbow.

“Mmm… Very nice doctor gave me very nice drugs,” Ken replies, looking down at my elbow and squinting at it as though he can’t quite tell whether it’s real or not. “No pain.”

“That’s good,” I respond, choking back a laugh as the urge to snicker almost gets the better of me. “I’m pleased to hear it.”

“Mmm… Me too,” Ken murmurs, his eyes widening as, apparently just having thought of something, he looks up at me. “How’s Aya and Chloé? Are they… groovy too?”

Groovy… Aya and Chloé? Oh dear God. What a thought. 

“I don’t know about… ah… groovy,” I reply, trying frantically to banish mental images of Aya wearing flares and Chloé perched as elegantly as he could possibly manage in a beanbag from my head. “They’re both asleep though and, I think, fine. They’ve also got a new furry friend to keep them amused, which I’m sure will come as a great news to you.”

“’Nother cat?” Ken groans. “Great. Wonderful. Just what we needed…” Trailing off, he peers at me and grins. “Hey… You look good.”

“What do you mean I look good?” I respond, injecting just the right amount of snootiness into my voice and giving Ken a mock miffed look. “Come on, Ken, I’ve *always* been handsome…”

“No, Mr Narc… Narcis… *Vain*,” Ken retorts, shaking his head slowly. “What I mean is you kinda look more with it than I… well, you know… expected.”

“Ah… That’s because, while you’ve been unconscious and taking up space on the sofa here, I’ve been subjected to three different well meaning lectures,” I reply, leaning back against the sofa and stretching. “The last of which actually managed to make a great deal of sense to me.”

“You mean to say you’ve finally woken up and smelt the coffee… or roses… or whatever?” Ken mutters, still peering at me in that quaintly serious way that only the truly drunk or stoned are capable of. “’Bout freakin’ time.”

So says the man who, if only he knew how, the last few days would have liked nothing more than to have made his very own voodoo doll of Chloé.

Lovely. Just lovely.

“Love you too, Ken,” I murmur sweetly. “No. Really. Coming from you that just means tons.”

“Not my fault you’ve been moping around with your head up your ass,” Ken replies, dragging himself to his feet and wincing as he shoulder makes it known that it was happy enough on the sofa.

“Again, the love I’m feeling for you right now knows no bounds,” I mutter, flipping Ken the bird and laughing as he promptly returns it.

“Mmm… Warm fuzzies,” Ken mumbles, carefully making his way around the coffee table and heading towards the door. “On that note however, I think it’s time I went to bed.”

“You do that,” I respond, blowing him a kiss as he glances over his shoulder. “Goodnight, Ken. Don’t let the bedbugs bite and all that.”

“If I find a bedbug I’ll be sure to send him in your direction,” Ken retorts, frowning as he glances towards the coffee table. “Hey… Where’s the magazine?”

“Er…” Shit. Good question. “Last time I looked it was on the table,” I murmur, staring at the coffee table and confirming for myself that, nope, it just simply isn’t there. “You go on to bed though. I’ll find it.”

“You’d better,” Ken replies, wincing again as he makes the mistake of gingerly touching his shoulder. “Fuck. Remind me not to do that again in a hurry.”

“Goodnight, Ken,” I repeat, standing up and watching Ken walk out of the room before beginning to glance around for the magazine. Last time I saw the damn thing it was definitely on the table. I’d thought about hiding -- burning -- it but in the end, too caught up in getting ready to go to the wreckers, I have to admit that I simply forgot about it and left it where we’d dropped it.

Which, in hindsight, appears to have been a mistake on my behalf.

“Have you lost something?” Finlay queries, walking into the room through the door that leads down to the office and giving me a inquiring look. “Or is that simply your ‘I’m deep in thought, leave me alone’ face?”

“Um… I’m… ah… fine,” I mutter, flashing what is probably more a grimace than a smile at Finlay in an attempt to -- get him off my back -- reassure him. “I’m just looking for something but, don’t worry, it’s nothing of… uh… major importance.”

“If you say so,” Finlay replies, shrugging as he walks over and crouches down next to Keegan. “Hey. I thought I’d come out here and offer to whoop your ass on your game of choice but I see your notoriously short attention span has already struck and you’ve given up on the PS2.”

“It was boring me,” Keegan responds, rolling over onto his back and sitting up. “Besides, I found something better to do with my time,” he continues, reaching behind him and sliding a magazine along the carpet towards Finlay. “Check this out. Looks like there’s a few things Faith doesn’t know about Abyssinian after all…”

Fuck! Sticky beaking little bastard!

Seeing not only the color red but also little placards reading ‘Kill’ flash before my eyes, I -- leap into action -- stride across the living room and am about to lean down and snatch the magazine up when Finlay beats me to it.

“I don’t know what your problem is, but ever since we’ve been in Tokyo you’ve been behaving like a compete brat,” Finlay complains, rolling the magazine up and swiftly hitting Keegan over the head with it. “While I’m at it, I suppose I’d better share two small facts of life with you. One, Faith learned of this earlier today but decided there wasn’t anything to achieved by telling you about it. And, two, how would you like it if Yohji was ogling pictures like this of, say, your brother, huh? For God’s sake, Kee! Don’t you have any freakin’ common sense?”

“If they didn’t want anyone seeing it then they shouldn’t have left it on the coffee table,” Keegan replies, rubbing his head and giving first Finlay and then me a sour look. “So, hey, it’s not like any of it’s my fault.”

“Of course not,” Finlay sighs, standing up and pointing the still tightly rolled magazine at Keegan. “Nothing ever is, is it?”

“Fuck you, Finlay,” Keegan mutters, jumping to his feet and giving me a cool, vaguely poisonous look. “You must be secure in yourself to share such a prize like that,” he adds, winking at me. “I mean, not only is he hot but he’s not a bad size either, not a bad size at all.”

Rendered momentarily speechless by the nerve of the little creep, I’m still trying desperately to weigh the pros -- *satisfaction* -- and cons -- Faith might be pissed and I *like* Faith -- of introducing Keegan’s face to the wall when Finlay steps in and solves my problem for me. Giving a disgusted sounding snort, he hits his friend on the head again with the magazine and, snagging his finger in my sleeve, starts to tug me away.

“Ignore him,” he murmurs, letting go of my sleeve and smiling as I turn around to face him. “Ignore him and with any luck he’ll go away.”

“If he keeps saying things about Aya that he’s got no fucking right to say, he’ll be going away permanently,” I reply through gritted teeth, glancing down at my hands and noting with surprise that they’re both balled into loose fists. “Seriously. I don’t care if he’s Faith’s brother or your team mascot or whatever as I simply won’t stand for it.”

“And what are you…”

“Shut up, Kee,” Finlay states dismissively, cutting Keegan off and, just for good measure, giving him a scathing look. “You mightn’t like it but we’re guests here and it’s impolite for guests to upset their hosts.” Pausing, he returns his attention to me and claps me on the shoulder, his smile once again firmly in place. “You tired or got plans for the evening?”

Have I got plans for the evening? God. What an unique, unheard of sort of concept.

“Seeing as beating on Keegan probably wouldn’t be the best way to make friends and influence people,” I murmur airily, wondering where Finlay could be going with this line inquiry, “I’m currently remarkably plan free. I also have no bed so, well, it’s a good job that I’m not tired either.”

“Good,” Finlay beams, handing me the still tightly rolled magazine. “How about me and you go on a sex-shop crawl then? It mightn’t sound like much but, come on, if we work at it hard enough it might even be fun.”

“A sex-shop crawl?” I echo, looking at Finlay, I’m sure of it, as though he’d just suggested we all just go out to get matching Hello Kitty tattoos. “Um… Huh?”

“You know, a bit like a pub crawl only without the beer,” Finlay replies cheerfully. “We hit as many sordid little shops as we can find and we buy… or steal… or confiscate… as many copies of this delightful magazine as we can lay our paws on. Then, tomorrow, we set a match to them and have ourselves a bonfire to toast marshmallows in or, depending on what takes your fancy, dance naked around.”

“I like the marshmallow idea myself,” I respond, smiling at Finlay and, his plan having struck me as -- one I should have had -- a brilliant one, nodding. “In fact, seeing as we’re not exactly achieving anything here, I say we should grab our coats and go right this very minute.”

It may be a token gesture, and I know we’ll never be able to get all the copies of the magazine that are in circulation, but at least I’ll be doing something instead of sitting around and falling prey to my own dark thoughts like I have been.

And what’s more, given that I’m already in a far better frame of mind than when I walked through the front door an hour or so ago, perhaps Finlay might be right and it *could* be fun.

=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=


	7. Chapter 7

~ Aya ~

Waking to both silence and the sensation of a warm body entwined around mine, I realize that I’m sharing a bed with Chloé -- as opposed to Yohji, who despite the fact he swears and declares that he doesn’t, snores -- and, finding nothing out of the ordinary about this whatsoever, yawn sleepily before opening my eyes and blinking at the now familiar ceiling of my room at the ex-American Consulate. 

Home sweet temporary home. 

Thank. God.

Looking down at Chloé, I take in the sight of the band of raw skin around his wrist and, not needing any physical reminders of what occurred however many hours ago, promptly shut my eyes. 

Damn Schuldig and his perverse, intricately planned ‘games’. In fact, just damn Schuldig to hell. A hell of perpetual suffering and torture with him, just for a change, as the victim. 

Then again, perhaps even that would be too civilized for the bastard.

Not wanting to think about Schuldig for fear of being swamped with the impotent rage I can feel bubbling just beneath my surface, I push all thoughts of the psychopath to the back of my head and, hugging Chloé a little closer, make an effort to relax.

It could have been worse. 

As uninspired and, really, downright inane as the statement is, it at least holds true.

It could have been a *lot* worse.

Everyone is safe and, for now at least, it’s over. Yohji is uninjured, Ken is healing, and both Free and Singapura are perfectly okay. Despite the hideous, heart stopping effectiveness of Schuldig’s little ‘show and tell’ performance regarding his leopard print cuffs, it was just that, an act, and everyone -- human and feline alike -- in Switzerland are fine. Rosary, who I now remember from the cemetery, have decided to stop lurking in the shadows and to join with us until Infinity are defeated. And, last but by no means least, Chloé is alive and sound asleep next to me.

So, yes. It could have been worse.

Oddly, while I know these things, I can’t actually recall having been *told* any of them. Thinking about it, my memory, while not necessarily patchy, seems to be slightly disjointed. Perhaps even, and I’m not entirely sure this even makes sense, detached. I *know* and I remember what took place today, but… But just not in the sequence they occurred. In fact, it’s almost as though my memory is working backwards.

Bedroom - bathroom - drive back from the warehouse - the arrival of Rosary - *blank* - Schuldig making me strip - the dead kittens on the walk to the workshop - Yohji making me eat a Big Mac - punching Ken - the magazine… And so on and so forth. It’s all, barring the period of test pattern just prior to Rosary saving the day, completely clear to me. The thing is, it’s almost as though I remember it all from the position of a spectator.

I think, and, again, I’m fairly confident that I’m on the right track here, my… vagueness… has a lot to do with Faith somehow either monitoring or controlling me. I also think he may have actually asked me whether I minded or whether I preferred to deal with the cold hard facts of reality as they occurred. And, if I’m right and he *did* ask, then I know I would have given him my go ahead to do what he liked to me so long as the pain in my head was kept to a dull roar without so much as a second’s hesitation. As obsessive as I may be about always being in control, in charge of my faculties, there are still times when, to rearrange an oft used saying, nothingness really is bliss. If it, if not wanting to deal with things straight away, was cowardly or unbecoming of me, then… Well, I’m sorry, but I just don’t care. There are some things I simply can’t deal very well with -- so sue me, it looks like I may just be human after all -- and being put in a position of all but naked vulnerability is something that’s guaranteed to have a bad effect on me every time. Another thing I don’t take too well is the sight of any of my friends lying crumpled and clearly distressed on the ground.

So, basically, if I took the weak route by allowing Faith to guide me then that’s my damn prerogative and if anyone’s got anything to say about it I hope for their sake that they don’t bother sharing it with me. I’m not particularly happy with myself, and I know that it was selfish of me, but if I could rewind time and live the moment over again I’d still take Faith up on his offer.

I’m strong. But I’m not that strong.

Besides, it’s not as though I would have been of any use to anyone even if I had remained in control of my -- by that time incredibly limited -- senses. I like to think that I would have been able to help convince Chloé that it was over or reassure Yohji that I didn’t blame him for any of it, but I know in myself that I would have been more a hindrance than anything else. Without Faith telepathically keeping a calming hold on me I simply would have been a huddled, silent wreck. I just know I would have. I’m not proud of it but I know in myself that it’s just one of those facts of life. I doubt, given how far out of it I was, that I even would have let Yohji touch me without intervention of some description.

Assuming, of course, he’d have been able to find it in himself to come to me, that is.

Hindsight being one of the cruelest jokes ever played at the expense of the human race, I know now -- again courtesy of Faith’s ‘information dump’ -- that Schuldig was able to keep me under control the way he did because, although I wasn’t even aware of it at the time, he was in my head. Taking his threat to shoot either Yohji or Chloé as a real one, I reluctantly took my clothes off under my own free will but after that I was Schuldig’s passive puppet. I held position and allowed him to manhandle me because, really, I literally had no other choice. Given that -- at the time -- I didn’t even find any of it particularly unpleasant or degrading, it was just like I was drugged and my mind was in an entirely different place.

What I also know however, and this is where the whole hindsight being a complete bitch comes into it, is that Schuldig’s powers have grown to such an extent that he can now effortlessly control two people at the same time. And, well, what this means is that during the same time he was keeping me placid he was also industriously convincing Yohji that I *deserved* it and that I looked, I don’t know, something like the embodiment of his favorite wet dream brought to life. Too cunning, too twisted for his own good, Schuldig played the verbal card too. His carefully worded statements not only sounding clearly in my ears but also to Yohji, who was as oblivious to the spell he was under as I was. Our minds not our own, we both believed the bastard too. Yohji thought he was turned on and I thought the same thing, that Schuldig was right and he *was*… appreciative… of my predicament.

And, oh hell yeah, right at that moment I hated, absolutely despised him. He *liked* what he was seeing, he was *agreeing* with Schuldig, and he… he wasn’t the Yohji I knew and loved. My sense of hatred, of *betrayal*, being so great, if I could have, I honestly think I could have shot him through the heart and felt nothing other than a degree of vindication.

Knowing what I do now, and, like everything, I don’t know exactly when it came to me, I can only hope that someone has brought Yohji up to speed on what Schuldig actually did to us and that he’s neither hating nor blaming himself. While he mightn’t think it, he’s as much of a victim of Schuldig’s theatrical extravaganza as any of us are. Just because he may not be licking his wounds in bed like Chloé and I -- and I’m sure Ken as well -- are doesn’t mean what he went through was any less powerful or stressful. In fact, if he’s soldiering on or just attempting to drink himself into oblivion then there’s a good chance he’s in a worse way than any of us.

Common sense, or perhaps it should be common decency, makes me want to get up and go look for Yohji but, not wanting to run the risk of waking Chloé, I make no attempt to extricate myself from his embrace and continue lying, unmoving and comfortable, on the mattress. I love Yohji and I’m worried about him and, no, I definitely don’t want him to be hurting, but…

But the same can be said for how I feel about Chloé. It might be wrong, and it’s certainly confusing, but I just can’t bring myself to leave Chloé to go off in search of Yohji. If Yohji were to poke his head through the door I’d have no qualms about gesturing him over and trying to talk to him. Barring either that happening or Chloé waking up and taking himself off somewhere though, I’m simply -- be it rightly or wrongly -- staying put.

Because my mind is once again my own now -- I can feel not so much as a hint of Faith’s presence and everything is clearer to me than it even was when Yohji and I first left for the wreckers’ yard -- I know that staying with Chloé is my choice and mine alone. He might be so deeply asleep that I could use the bed as a trampoline and he still wouldn’t wake, and perhaps he’s not in as bad a way as I happen to suspect he is, but, still, I just can’t bring myself to up and leave him. In fact, not even my usual fears of not knowing the right thing to say or that nothing I could do could possibly be of any help to him anyway, are making any sort of negative impact on me. I just…

Fuck. I don’t know. Maybe I’m just too cozy and don’t want to move solely because it would require some actual effort and expenditure of energy on my behalf. Alternatively, maybe I’m just curious about what happened to Chloé this afternoon and want to be around when he wakes up so he can tell me.

Then, well, there’s always that other option, the option of last resort, I suppose. And that’s that I have to admit to myself that I’ve come to love him almost as much as I do Yohji and that I simply don’t want to leave his side until I know, preferably from his own mouth, that he’s okay.

Who knows.

There being far too much going on in my head at the moment, I sure as fuck don’t, that’s for sure.

I know a lot -- that Schuldig was at the warehouse, that Rosary rescued me at the cemetery before, so as to keep their presence in Tokyo secret from us, putting a block of sorts on my memory, that Schuldig’s psychic abilities have increased to such a degree that he’s now capable of influencing people without them even aware of it -- but there’s still a couple of things, a couple of *important* things, that are still managing to escape me.

Despite not having left his side since I was finally able to shake off some of my stupor and go to him at the workshop, I have no real idea how Chloé is. Nor do I know the extent of his injuries. Faith apparently having reached the conclusion that I wasn’t to be left to my own spaced out devices, I was even in the bathroom while he was looking Chloé over and everything. I didn’t look though. I don’t really know why, but I just didn’t. All I did was sit hugging my knees on the toilet. I may have even closed my eyes. To be honest I don’t remember. When Faith had finished playing nurse and I had the bathroom to myself, I showered, a quick shower not because I was in a hurry to be elsewhere but because I was too tired to remain standing upright, before dressing in the pajamas that had been left for me on the vanity unit and returning to the bedroom. I then, without once having said anything since the garage, got into bed with Chloé, who was already settled under the covers, and went to sleep. If anyone said anything then, again, I simply can’t remember. 

The other thing that I feel as though I’m missing is what happened at the wreckers just before the candles went out and Rosary arrived. While I could be wrong, I don’t think my forgetting is so much Faith’s doing as it is my own subconscious. If it was Faith and he’s trying to protect me, then why’d he give me back Schuldig’s desecration of my parents’ graves and the fact he snuck up on me at the cemetery? God knows I could have lived without recalling that appalling fact. But no, that I’m allowed to have back. Just as I’m allowed to know Schuldig was at Wapping.

So, what am I missing? And why? Why am I unconsciously blocking something that happened in the workshop?

I can remember with digital clarity Schuldig unzipping Yohji’s fly and I can remember the light of the candles being extinguished only to replaced by the bright overhead light of bare fluorescent tubes and the shock of having Faith, who I instantly recognized, standing in front of me.

Standing in front of me protecting me not from Schuldig, who was still standing over near Yohji, but from…

… Someone from my past. 

A scent. I remember a scent. A distinctive, slightly offensive scent that made my skin break out in goosebumps and my heartbeat increase. An unique fragrance, most likely made solely for one particular person. Not floral, more… spicy. Exotic. Expensive. A scent that reminds me of blood, sweat, and… other bodily fluids.

Kimura!

Startled by my realization, I lurch into a sitting position and, the shock going straight to my weakened lungs, start to cough. Like earlier in the kitchen, I’m unable to control the sudden, barking cough and within seconds my head it swimming and I feel as though I can’t breathe.

Just… No! It can’t be. I killed him. He’s dead. He has to be. No one could survive the wound I inflicted on his throat. I… I can even remember the vivid red of his blood as it spilt out over the carpet.

His sleep being either disrupted by my panicked pulling away from him or the racket I’m making, Chloé wakes up and, quickly shaking off his own grogginess, pulls himself into a sitting position. “Aya, shhh, you need to calm down,” he murmurs, kneeling next to me and gently rubbing his hand along my upper back. “Come on. Just breathe… You have to concentrate on your breathing.”

“Kimura!” I gasp, shaking my head desperately. “He…”

“He’s dead,” Chloé interrupts reassuringly, his hand still a comforting weight on my back. “You know he’s dead, Aya, you killed him yourself. Whoever that was tonight wasn’t Kimura and was just some sick bastard dressed up to look like him. Now… Shhh… You’ve got to calm down and breathe.”

Making an effort to do as I’m told, I gradually get the coughing under control and, wheezing as though I’ve just run a marathon, shake my head again. “Chloé… I…”

“It’s okay, Aya,” Chloé whispers, resting his forehead against mine for a few seconds before taking his hand away from my back and slowly climbing off the bed. “All that matters is that you’re here,” he continues, giving me a wan smile before padding silently in the direction of the bathroom. “Now, stay where you are and I’ll just get you a glass of water.” 

Pushing my back up against the bedhead, I run my fingers shakily through my hair and, not wanting to be on my own, wait impatiently for Chloé to return. When he does, glass of water in hand, I breathe a wheezy sounding sigh of relief and pat the mattress next to me. 

“Oh, trust me, I’m not going anywhere,” Chloé murmurs drily, giving me a tired, vaguely guarded look as he sinks down on the edge of the bed and hands me the water. “Here, take a few sips of this. With any luck it might help soothe your throat.”

“Thank you,” I reply, taking the glass and, cupping my left hand under it in an attempt to disguise how shaky my hands are, carefully bringing it to my lips. The water, as Chloé had hoped, feels wonderful going down my throat and I drink half the glass before placing it in easy reach on my bedside table. “That’s better. I… I needed that.”

“I’m glad it helped,” Chloé responds softly, turning around and, with a sigh, presenting his back to me.

Not liking the dejected, defeated slump of his shoulders, my own -- irrational, *impossible* -- fears give way to concern about Chloé and, wanting to see if I can do something for him, I crawl over and place my hands tentatively on his back. “Chloé?”

“Don’t…” Flinching under my light touch, Chloé leans forward and buries his face in his hands. “I… I’m fine, Aya,” he mumbles not exactly convincingly. “Please… You don’t have to worry about me.”

“Don’t?” I echo, taking my hands away and staring at Chloé as he tries to all but fold in on himself. “Don’t what? Don’t… care? Don’t… touch you? Are you injured? If I touched you on a tender spot then I’m sorry. The last thing I want is to hurt you.”

“Please, Aya, you don’t have to worry about me,” Chloé repeats faintly, shaking his head. “Just go back to sleep. I’m fine.”

“If this is fine then I’d hate to see fucked,” I sigh, noting with a sudden moment of gut wrenching clarity Chloé’s reaction, a sharp intake of breath and a visible tremor that works its way through his body, to my comment and, swiftly putting the pieces together, wanting to scream. “Oh God, Chloé, please tell me that he didn’t…”

Flinching again as he realizes that I’ve somehow managed to see through him, Chloé hugs himself and slowly nods. “It… It doesn’t matter though,” he murmurs hoarsely. “As he said it was just a trip down memory lane. You know, been there, done that. It… It was nothing that I haven’t been through before…”

Bastard! That lowlife, despicable, Godforsaken fucking bastard! I always knew that Schuldig’s morals are what snow is to hell -- nonexistent, a myth, a rumor perpetuated by those foolish enough to believe in good -- but… Fuck! This is just taking things, even by his usual cellar-dwelling standards, to a whole new low.

What it’s also doing is explaining in basic, easily understood terms all of Chloé’s reactions and why he hates him so much.

And, Goddamn it, to say I merely hate Schuldig is like someone saying ‘Oh, Hitler? Yeah… He was kind of a bad guy’.

“I…”

Trailing off as, through the vile, bitter and powerful sense of hatred I can feel flooding through me, I realize I don’t know what to say, I fall silent. I *what* exactly? I’m sorry? Sorrow denotes pity. And while pity might be a part of it, might be a minute percentage of what I’m feeling, I know from experience that it’s the last thing Chloé needs to hear. Besides, sorry is an overused word. ‘I’m sorry that I was rude to you.’ ‘I’m sorry that your pet goldfish died.’ ‘I’m sorry that your team wasn’t able to protect you.’ ‘I’m sorry that you were abducted and molested by an insane German…’

I’m… just… sorry. Sorry, sorry, sorry. I’m sorry that it happened. I’m sorry that it’s not the first time.

I’m also sorry that I don’t know what it is I can do to help. Chloé, like Yohji, has always been able to get through to me when I’m at my lowest ebb and here I am just sitting here. Watching him. Helpless. Lost. Frustrated.

Yohji, though, he’d know what to do. He’d probably throw caution to the winds and hug him, the unspoken concept of cleanliness and purity spilling effortlessly out of his gestures. And Chloé, if the tables were turned, he’d know what to do. Like how he calmly handled me after Wapping.

Like how he kissed me when I’d convinced myself that my mouth was as clean as a toilet bowl in pub next to a construction site.

Suddenly knowing what I have to do, I put plan one into immediate action and, crawling closer to Chloé, curl around him in a tight embrace. He cringes at my touch, at my refusal to acknowledge his body language and leave him alone, but makes no attempt to pull away. Hugging him and feeling his body gradually relax against mine, I hesitate over moving onto step two not because I don’t want to but because I’m afraid I might just end up making things worse for him by giving him my cold. I then, as Chloé’s arms creep around my back to tentatively return the embrace, decide to hell with it, that if anyone was going to get my crappy cold they’d probably have it already, and, leaning in even closer, settle my lips moistly on his.

As I’d been hoping, Chloé reacts to my sudden kiss in exactly the same way I did when he did it to me in the first floor bathroom after the incident in Wapping. Instead of pushing me away, his lips part under mine and, anchoring his fingers in the back of my pajama top, he returns the kiss instinctively.

Cautiously pleased with myself for not having made a desperation fuelled error of judgment, I stroke Chloé’s spine through the soft silk of his top and am contemplating my next move when the distinctly odd sensation of something small and determined squirming between our bodies makes it for me.

What the…?

Pulling apart in unison, we both look down -- and I’m sure Chloé’s look of bright eyed surprise is mirrored on my own face -- and find ourselves eyeball to whisker with a tiny tortoiseshell kitten. Perched on Chloé’s thigh and looking up at us with what I believe passes for feline fascination, she waves a paw at me and chirrups what could either be a greeting or, alternatively, a demand for food. Never having seen her before and subsequently not knowing how to ‘read’ her, I wouldn’t know.

“I… ah… take it you didn’t know we had a voyeur in our midst either,” I murmur, reaching out a finger and stroking the kitten under her chin. Like all cats, she allows this with a look on her face that clearly says she’s only tolerating it as a personal favor to me and that, really, I should be grateful for the honor.

“No, I didn’t,” Chloé replies, smiling as he gently pats her back. “She must have been buried under the bedding at the foot of the bed. Isn’t she just beautiful though? I suspect Jin must have found her and brought her back here.”

“She’s very cute,” I agree, staring down at the now purring kitten with bemusement. “I still can’t believe neither of us knew she was sharing the bed with us.”

“Poor little thing,” Chloé sighs, scooping the kitten up and cradling her in his hands. “At least… At least one was able to get away. I honestly thought, not that I can exactly claim to have been thinking much at all at the time, that he’d got them all…”

“Don’t let him get to you, Chloé,” I murmur thickly as yet another wave of loathing for Schuldig washes over me. Killing kittens is wrong under any circumstance but killing them to fuck with someone who shares a bond with the animal is even worse. “It… It’s over now. And, look, you’ve scored yourself a new furry friend.”

“And a team of old friends,” Faith interjects softly from the doorway. Dressed in black pajama pants and a long sleeved dark purple t-shirt and with his hair all disheveled looking, it’s clear that he’s only just woken up and I can’t help but wonder if we’re somehow responsible for interrupting his sleep. Given my freak out regarding Kimura followed by Chloé’s minor, temporary breakdown, it wouldn’t exactly surprise me. “Sorry,” he continues, an apologetic look on his face as he walks across to the bed and crouches down in front of Chloé. “I just wanted to check on how you were both doing and, well, when I heard you talking thought that it was probably safe to come in.”

“Of course it’s safe,” I mutter, not knowing whether I should feel embarrassed about how -- physically -- close I am to Chloé and, quickly deciding to err on the side of caution, shuffling slightly backwards. Whether there’s anything still to it or not, Faith and Chloé were once an item, I’m sure of it, and, now that Faith’s here, I don’t quite know where that’s supposed to leave me. “We were just talking about the kitten here,” I add, making it to my side of the bed and hesitating over what to do next. Do I leave and go and find Yohji or, seeing as I was here first, do I out sit Faith and wait for him to leave before going back to sleep?

Decisions, decisions.

“Well, I’m just pleased to see the pair of you looking so much better than you did earlier,” Faith replies, closing his hand around Chloé’s knee. “Chloé? Are you…”

“I want to go back to sleep,” Chloé states somewhat abruptly, cutting Faith off and swinging his legs up onto the mattress. What almost looks to be a hint of anger crossing over his otherwise unreadable expression, Chloé gently places the kitten next to him and pulls the comforter up to his waist. Once he’s settled, he half props himself up and gives Faith an expectant look. “Well, seeing as you’re here perhaps you’d like to make yourself useful…” 

“Of course,” Faith murmurs. “I’m sor…” Obviously deciding better of it, he trails off and smiles sadly. “You’re right, you need to sleep,” he finishes wanly, placing his hand on Chloé’s cheek and, without so much as blinking or muttering a chant, sending him off to sleep.

Almost as impressed by his trick of emulating Morpheus as I am both concerned and curious about Chloé’s reactions to his friend, I look at Faith and shrug. “Perhaps I should go,” I offer quietly. “If you’d like to stay with Chloé, I don’t mind finding another bed.”

“No, you stay where you are,” Faith replies, his fingers lingering on Chloé’s cheek for a moment before, with what looks to be extreme reluctance, he forces himself to stand up. “Yohji and I discussed this earlier and we both agree that you’re better off together, that, for now at least, there’s nothing more we could offer you.”

“Yohji?” Perking up at the mention of Yohji’s name, I look at Faith and gesture at him to continue. “You’ve been talking to Yohji? Is he okay? Please don’t tell me he’s blaming himself for any of what happened…”

“He was blaming himself,” Faith responds, walking around to my side of the bed, “but I think that’s predominantly in the past. I lectured him, Finlay lectured him and even Free had a go. Given that he was looking almost cheery when he walked out the door with Finlay, I’d say at least one of us must have got through to him too.”

“He’s not here?” I query, stretching my legs out in front of me and propping myself up against my pillow. “Are you sure that that’s okay? I thought we’d all be wanting to make a point of sticking together…”

“He’s with Finlay and, trust me, Aya, I’m sure that they’re both perfectly safe,” Faith replies, pulling the comforter over my legs and earning himself a malevolent stare of disapproval from the kitten in the process. “Before you ask, they’ve taken it upon themselves to trawl through some sex shops in the search for as many copies of that magazine as they can find. I think they’re then planning to make bonfire out of them.”

“Oh.” Touched, despite knowing that however many they manage to get their hands on will still pale in comparison to how many copies there are out there, I don’t know what else to say and simply nod.

“I suspect they’ll be back shortly,” Faith continues when it dawns on him that I’ve fallen silent. “Again, Aya, please take my word for it that Yohji’s okay. He was pretty messed up but, honestly, I think he’s a lot better now.”

“You have no idea how relieved I am to hear that,” I whisper, looking down at Chloé as he rolls over onto his side and presses against me. The kitten, taking the risk that this is the position he’s going to stay in, gives my hand a friendly little head butt before walking along the length of Chloé’s leg and settling on his thigh. “Faith… Are you sure that you don’t want to sleep here? Even if Yohji’s out, perhaps I should wait up for him or… or simply find another bed…”

“As you may have gathered, Chloé’s not exactly fond of me at the moment,” Faith murmurs, his expression one of great sadness. “Nor, for that matter, is Free. In fact, if they didn’t think we could help in any way I think either one or both of them would take great pleasure in kicking us out. It’s unfortunate, but I stand by my reasons for not having come forward earlier and just hope they can forgive me. Especially Chloé…”

Reading into Faith’s not exactly direct and to the point answer that, no, he doesn’t want me to leave, I shrug my acceptance and give him a querying look. “When we met before you mentioned something about telling me Rosary’s story ‘when the time is right’,” I murmur, marveling at how clear this memory now is although I couldn’t remember any of it a few short hours ago. “And, well, I was wondering if the time is perhaps now right.”

“There is no right time for our story,” Faith sighs, looking at Chloé. “But, yes, you’re right. It’s now a story you need to know given the circumstances and that we’re now going to be working together.”

“Is there a way I can… ah… know it without actually having to have someone sit down and tell it to me?” I query, instinct telling me that there’s no way I’m going to like hearing it and that, well, if I’m going to find it hard then I don’t even want to think about how draining it will be for the person having to share it with me. “You know, like how you were able to update me on everything on the way back from the garage.”

“I can, actually,” Faith replies, shifting his gaze back to me and nodding. “What’s more, it’s a great idea too, one that I really should have thought of myself. Leave it to me. When you next wake up you’ll know both our story and why it is that it’s not one anyone is ever in a rush to volunteer to tell.”

“Do I have to do anything?” I murmur, quickly covering my mouth with my hand as I yawn.

“As it’s more his story than anyone’s and because he’ll need to be my conduit, you’ll just have to touch Chloé somewhere on the skin,” Faith responds, turning away from the bed and beginning to walk towards the door. “Don’t worry, he’ll be completely oblivious and I promise that it won’t hurt him, that, actually, it won’t hurt either of you.”

“If you say so,” I mutter, yawning again as I settle down on the mattress and pull the comforter up to my chin. “Faith… Um… Thank you. Thank you for everything.”

“I promised that I’d be there for you,” Faith states softly, pausing in the doorway to glance at Chloé one last time before slipping into the corridor and pulling the door gently shut behind him. 

Content not to think about anything other than whether Faith’s actually going to be able to implant Rosary’s history into my mind, I shift over onto my side and reach for Chloé. Despite being fast asleep, he rearranges himself unconsciously against me and, just like his new feline friend, gives a purr of approval as I slip my hand under his pajama top. His skin warm and smooth under my touch, I have just enough time to hope that Faith’s right, that Yohji really is okay, before swiftly sliding off to sleep.

The dream, if that indeed is what it is, starts immediately.

I’m sitting in the center of a darkened cinema. Using the light of the fully illuminated but otherwise empty screen, I look around and discover that I have the place to myself. Not finding anything particularly out of the ordinary in this, I settle back in my chair and, because I’m alone, stretch my legs out on the back of the seat in front of me.

The movie, which begins barely a second after I’ve finished making myself comfortable, starts with a simple statement written in white on a pitch-black screen, and, from the moment it flickers onto the screen, I watch it as though transfixed.

\- A Beginning. Germany. The Sixteenth Century -

A crowd of villagers, their ragged clothing in the same earthy tones of the dilapidated buildings behind them, line a cobblestone street. Men, women, and children - everyone’s there. It’s a day’s outing for the entire family. They’re all in high spirits and the sound of both lively chatter and laughter fills the air. Scrawny looking dogs, mongrels of unknown heritage, run around unchecked amongst the villagers. One, a large brown animal with a festering wound on its back leg, breaks away from the crowd and, with its tail wagging happily, runs down a back alley. Its tail has barely disappeared from view when a loud, pained yelp is heard and it returns to the street, its tail now between its legs and with a vicious, bloody scratch running from its left eye to its nose.

Noticing the state of the dog, the peasants fall silent. Children cling to their mothers and a few of the elderly cross themselves. Those that were standing near the entry to the alley hurriedly move away from it.

One of the villager’s, a big, broad shouldered brute of man wearing a roughly made leather apron, pushes aside his tiny wife and, wanting to show that *he’s* not afraid, stalks across to the entrance of the alley. He’s almost there when a scraggly looking black cat with golden eyes walks out of the alley and onto the cobblestones. Clearly unafraid of the man, it sits down and, flattening its ears and narrowing its eyes, calmly hisses at him.

His masculine bravado deserting him at the sight of the black cat, all the color drains from the man’s flushed face and, quickly making the sign of the cross, he returns to his wife as fast as his thick legs will carry him. 

No one laughs. Some even, their bonhomie of only a few moments ago having deserted them, slink away.

Its position for the spectacle secure, the cat places its front paws together and stares unblinkingly down the length of the street. When the frail and barely alive victim is dragged out of the cart and onto the cobblestones by the robed guards, the cat does not move. Nor does it react when the peasants, their fear and superstitions momentarily forgotten about in favor of the imminent show, start to shout and yell.

“Witch!”

“Filthy whore!” 

“Heretic!”

“Burn her!

“Burn away her sins! Purify her soul!”

Like the cat, the victim gives nothing away. Clothed only in a blood stained hessian skirt, her injuries are so numerous and horrific that her entire body looks like one giant wound. If not for the guards holding her upright it would be unlikely that she would even be able to move of her own volition. The tips of her fingers are black with congealed blood from having her fingernails ripped out and her torso is crisscrossed with welts. Around her neck she wears, the gold barely visible through the dried blood and grime, a Celtic cross on a belcher chain. Her breasts bear the mark of having been branded and her skull has been crudely shaved. The stubble that has grown back is pale blond in color and her eyes are blue. A clear, pale blue fringed with the blackest of lashes. Her cheekbones high and her features delicate, before the crooked finger of sin was pointed at her she probably would have been considered the town’s resident beauty.

Now, however, she’s an object of derision and fear-fuelled loathing. The men who once desired her, afraid of what would happen to them if their affection for a proven witch became public knowledge, cheer the loudest for her death.

Dragged along at a fast trot by the guards, it doesn’t take long for her to reach the town square and the wooden stake that is set up in the middle of it. Once she’s tied to it, her stick-like arms fastened with rope above her head, the town’s priest, an obese man with gemstone encrusted gold rings on each of his fleshy fingers, walks out of a nearby building and strides up to her, his small eyes alight with religious and righteous fervor.

At the sight of him, a vision of color in his purple robes, the villagers once again fall silent.

“Witch!” the priests exclaims contemptuously, raising his arms to the sky. “In order to salvage what remains of your tainted soul you must renounce Satan and beg the Almighty for absolution! Only then will you find the peace that you desperately seek!”

Lifting her head, the woman looks straight at the priest and, although it clearly pains her, smiles serenely. “Little man,” she murmurs hoarsely, “you know not of what you speak. I have seen the tangible proof of my beliefs, what of you? My peace is within me while yours is but a myth sent down not by a God but by men who, in the name of power, believe they speak the tongue of Kings. Kill me if you will. I care not for I am already at peace.”

“Heretic!” the priest bellows, his cheeks burning red as, reaching out his arm with surprising speed, he closes his hand around her cross. “If this is what you believe in then, as your final punishment for bedding with Satan, I will…”

Paling, the priest trails off and glances down at the ground. Finding the black cat now sitting by his left ankle, he hurriedly releases the cross and surreptitiously takes a step backwards. When he points a shaky finger at it, the cat stands up, arches its back, and hisses. The guards, despite their duty to protect the priest, make no move to venture near the cat and one, like the villagers earlier, even quickly makes the sign of the cross.

In danger of losing control of the situation, the priest moves further away from the cat and gestures angrily at the woman. “Burn her! Burn the witch!”

His order having been given, the guard holding the flaming torch steps forward and ignites the pile of dry wood under the woman’s bare feet. The fire takes quickly and, as the villagers shout the chant started by the priest -- “Burn her! Burn the witch!” -- within minutes it has engulfed the woman. If she screams, no one hears it.

The cat, as it has done throughout the proceedings, watches its mistress burn through narrowed, unblinking eyes. Like a sentinel waiting to guide her soul to the afterlife, it sits patiently, its attention not even wavering as, the show over, the priest waddles back to his church and the villagers head back to their cottages.

Unwilling to waste precious water on extinguishing the corpse of a witch, the village council allow the fire to run its course and it burns well into the night. When the last ember has flared for the final time the grisly remains on the pile of ashes bare little resemblance to that of a human being. Although badly tarnished, the Celtic cross, however, remains intact.

Slowly, the cat stands up and, with a mournful yowl, walks across the ashes to the blackened bones of the woman. Picking the cross up in its mouth, it carefully tugs on it until the chain breaks through the fragile bones of her neck and becomes free. Its heirloom obtained, the cat gently head butts the woman’s skull before returning to the cobblestones and, with the cross hanging out of the corner of its mouth, sets off down the street at a fast pace.

Reaching the alleyway that it had been hiding in earlier, a young boy of about seven and with the same blond hair of the woman who had just been killed, steps out of the darkness and, as an incoherent whimper of anguish escapes his lips, picks the cat up. Dropping the cross into the boy’s waiting hand, the cat leans on his shoulder and begins to purr as it licks the tears that stream silently down his fair cheeks.

Hugging the cat, the boy slips the cross over his neck and together they start to walk out of the village.

Neither look back.

The screen then goes black and another statement, again written simply in a plain font, flashes up.

\- The Bloodline Continues. Sighisoara, Romania. The Twentieth Century - 

Settled comfortably in an intricately carved wooden rocking chair, a women sleeps in a clearly well cared for and welcoming living room. While the room’s furnishings are predominantly antique in design and the walls painted a clean white, the faded denim of the woman’s dress and the brown suede headband holding her long blonde hair off her face indicate that the scene is most likely set some time in the Seventies. Despite her features being relaxed in sleep, it’s obvious that, with her delicate features and pale, blemish free skin, the woman is a classic beauty. She is also heavily pregnant. 

Curled on her high, rounded belly and also sleeping is a black cat with a small patch of white on its chest. On a gold chain around the woman’s neck and lying near the cat’s neatly folded front paws is a Celtic cross. Although highly polished, the cross, in the form of small marks etched into its gold, still bears the scars of past lives, of past… owners.

Its eyes suddenly blinking open, the cat sits up and stares over its back towards the closed door set in the wall opposite the rocking chair. Seconds tick by on the old rose-entwined mantle clock above the fireplace before, with a violent switch of its tail, the cat jumps off the woman and slips under the gold brocade sofa. It has barely disappeared from sight when the door opens and a man walks into the room.

Putting his briefcase down by the fireplace, the man thoroughly surveys the living room before going over to crouch beside the woman. With his dark hair and eyes and lightly tanned skin, the man is as attractive as he is, appearance wise, the woman’s polar opposite. Dressed in a somber looking gray suit, the only jewelry he wears is a gold wedding band engraved with roses. On her ring finger, the woman wears a matching band. 

Noticing a stray strand of cat hair on his wife’s dress, he picks it up and, his expression momentarily darkening, gazes once again around the room.

Waking, the woman smiles warmly at her husband and, taking his hand, places it over her belly. “It is time,” she murmurs, placing her hand over his and pressing down on it. “He is ready.”

“You do not know for a certain that our child is going to be a boy,” the man replies, lifting her hand and gently kissing it before standing up and pulling a set of car keys out of his pocket. “I say this not because I do not want it to be true but because I would so hate for you to be disappointed if it proves not to be.”

Her smile broadening, the woman allows the man to help her to feet and, once she’s standing, closes her hand around his arm. “I would love the child no less if it were a girl,” she responds quietly, “but there is no need to doubt me, my love, as I know that our first born is going to be a boy. It is something I have known for months. Now, come. I think it is time for us to go.” 

~*~

Side by side, the new parents stand by their baby’s cot, their expressions matching images of contented happiness. The woman in particular, her pale blue eyes filled with love as she gazes down at her child, looks to be glowing. As she’d predicted, the baby is a boy and, oblivious to the attention he commands, he sleeps soundly. Like his mother he is of fair complexion and the faint covering of downy soft hair that already covers his hair is of the palest blond.

“You are sure?” the husband queries softly, placing his arm around his wife’s shoulders and hugging her to him.

“I am sure,” she confirms, resting her head on her husband’s chest, her eyes never leaving her son. “I wish to name him Edward after my grandfather. We were especially close and it would mean a lot to me.”

“Edward,” the man murmurs, a momentarily flash of what could be doubt crossing his face. “Remind me, please, was he one of the…”

“My grandfather was gifted, yes,” the woman interrupts as, pulling away from her husband, she gives him a hurt look. “If you do not wish to honor the memory of my grandfather by naming our son after him because of this…”

“I did not mean it like that,” the man replies earnestly, leaning down and kissing the top of his wife’s head. “If you wish to name him Edward then Edward his name shall be.” Pausing, he clearly hesitates for a few seconds before once again placing his arm around the woman’s shoulders and continuing. “Do you think he…”

“I do not know,” the woman replies, again cutting her husband off but this time making no attempt to pull away from him. “As I told you before we agreed to start a family, it is impossible to predict. While it has been known to skip generations there are also records detailing how every member of a particular family received a specific gift. First born, the seventh child, the only daughter in a family of sons, identical twins… There is neither rhyme nor reason to who it blesses. We… We will just have to wait and see.”

Sighing, the man nods and begins to gently guide his wife out of the nursery. “Yes, we will just have to wait and see,” he echoes dully. “Come. Let us leave little Edward to his rest.”

“Whether he carries my family’s gift or not, he is still beautiful and still our son,” the woman murmurs, glancing behind her as she reluctantly follows her husband out of the room. “That is all that matters.”

“Where’s that damn cat?” the husband mutters, glossing over his wife’s statement of unconditional love and glancing along the corridor. “I don’t want it going anywhere him.”

“Arcadia would never hurt Edward,” the woman responds, pulling, with one last glance over her shoulder, the door to the nursery shut behind her. “I believe though that she is outside.”

“She’d better be,” the man retorts, leading his wife towards the stairs. “Now, let’s read for a while before retiring to bed.”

Nodding her agreement, the wife follows her husband down the stairs. They’re barely disappeared when, silent as the night, the black cat with the white bib, Arcadia, materializes through an open doorway and slinks along the corridor to the nursery. Pushing the door open with her paw, she slips into the room and makes a beeline for the cot. Reaching it, she jumps gracefully over its polished wood side and lands, light as a feather, on the mattress.

Lying down alongside Edward, Arcadia begins to purr the feline equivalent of a lullaby as, instinctively, he reaches out and closes his tiny hand around her thick fur.

~*~

Placing his empty glass on the sink, the man gazes out of the kitchen window, his expression one of displeasure and his eyes cold.

“You are home early,” his wife comments, walking into the kitchen and placing both her gardening gloves and the freshly cut roses she’d been carrying onto the table. Taking her wide brimmed straw hat off, she places it on the back of a chair and runs her fingers through her hair before walking over to her husband and giving him a quick kiss on the cheek. “It is good to see you.”

“You have nothing to say about… *that*?” the man queries softly, glancing cursorily at the woman and gesturing out the window.

“What is it that you would like me to say?” she replies, her expression closing over as she washes her hands in the sink. “I am sorry if it displeases or even disappoints you, but there’s nothing I can do,” she continues, sighing as she dries her hands on her apron. “Don’t forget that he’s not even yet two. When he’s older he’ll learn to control them. Until then we should just consider ourselves blessed that he’s constantly being watched even when we’re not around.”

“I still don’t think it’s right,” her husband mutters, stepping back from the window and scowling. “Cats *can* be vicious. What if they turn on him?

“It is not cats he will ever need to fear,” the woman responds sadly, gazing pointedly at her husband for a second before turning around and walking back to the door. “If you’d like to put the roses in a vase I’ll just bring Edward in and bathe him before attending to tea.”

“As you wish,” the man replies, watching his wife walk out of the kitchen before picking the roses up and carrying them over to the sink. Dropping them, he picks up a stem to start picking the extra leaves off and gazes out of the window, his eyes narrowing as he watches his wife walk across the lawn to where Edward is sitting on a brightly colored rug.

The rose forgotten about as his attention is once again captivated by the sight of his young son and his feline companions, it slips from his fingers and he slams his hands down hard on the sink.

As though wanting to offer some proof to his wife’s theory about providing a guard service, the five cats sitting on the rug around Edward all turn and stare towards the house. Unbothered by the presence of the woman amongst them, they ignore her as she picks the infant up and continue staring unblinkingly at the kitchen window.

Making a sound of disgust under his breath, the man’s shoulders tense and he’s still gazing into the garden when his wife, with Edward clinging contentedly to her, returns to the kitchen. Noticing her husband’s stance, she kisses her son’s forehead and silently walks through the room.

“It is not his fault,” she whispers, tears welling in her eyes as she pauses by the door that leads towards the stairs. “Please, for his sake, don’t hold my family’s bloodlines against him. If you must direct your… disappointment… somewhere, direct it at me.”

When the man gives no indication of going to reply, she hugs Edward, who’s gazing up at her adoringly through eyes the exact same shade as hers, even tighter and continues down the corridor.

~*~

Taking the woman’s money, the shopkeeper gazes out his store’s window and shakes his head. “Three days now,” he mutters, handing back her change. “It’s been raining solidly for three days now. While I’m all for a little rain, this is becoming ridiculous.”

“Ah, but think how good it is for our gardens,” the woman replies, slipping the money into her pocket and picking up her bag of groceries. “My roses will be loving it.”

“Mine too,” an elderly woman adds, coming to stand alongside the woman at the counter. “Hello, my dear,” she smiles, her eyes widening slightly as she glances towards the shop’s glass door. “Well I never! Unless I’m seeing things, isn’t that your cat sitting out there on the footpath?” 

“Arcadia?” the woman murmurs uncertainly, turning around to look towards the door. “Oh! I… I’ve got to go!”

Dropping her groceries in her haste to leave the shop, the woman pushes the door open and, as Arcadia yowls plaintively, glances fleetingly over her shoulder. “I… I’m sorry. I’m… I’m needed at home,” she stammers, stepping out into the rain and following Arcadia as the cat runs up the rain slicked street.

“Something must be the matter with her son,” the old woman comments, bending over and slowly returning the woman’s groceries to the bag. “He’s taken after his mother’s side in more than his looks, you know,” she adds knowingly, placing the bag on the counter before walking over to the door and watching the woman’s back as she disappears from view.

“Arcadia! What is it?” the woman calls out anxiously, oblivious to the odd looks she’s getting from the people driving past. “Is it Edward?”

Focused only on getting the woman to where she’s needed, Arcadia continues to bolt up the street and only comes to a stop once they’re both standing on the front doorstep of their home.

Her hands slippery from the rain, the woman’s keys fall from her fingers as she attempts to unlock the door and, with an exasperated sigh, she lightly touches the lock with her finger, causing the door to fly open. Leaving the keys on the mat, she rushes towards the stairs, her eyes darting into each room as she passes it. Finding her husband sitting calmly in an armchair in the living room, she comes to an abrupt stop and stares at him.

“Is everything all right?” she queries hesitantly, glancing down at Arcadia and looking puzzled. “I thought…”

“Everything’s fine,” her husband mutters, looking up and giving her an odd look. “Why wouldn’t it be? Now, go and dry yourself. You’re dripping all over the carpet.”

“But…”

Meowing loudly, Arcadia rubs past the woman’s legs and heads up the stairs.

Shaking her head, the woman glances dismissively at her husband and sighs heavily before following the cat to Edward’s room.

“Edward?” she murmurs, frowning as she walks over to the antique oak cupboard by the window. “Are you in there?” she adds, slowly opening the door and crouching down. Her face falling at what she finds hidden amongst the clothes and toys, she reaches into the cupboard and gently pulls her miserable looking son out. “What’s the matter my darling? Have you hurt yourself?”

“Father hates me,” Edward whimpers, blinking eyes rimmed red from crying at his mother. “He… He thinks I’m a freak!”

“He said this to you?” the woman queries incredulously, a look of hurt tinged shock settling over her face as she picks Edward up and carries him over to the bed. “I’m sure he didn’t mean it, that… that you must not have heard him correctly.”

“He didn’t say it at all,” Edward replies, leaning against his mother as she sits down on the bed next to him. “But it’s what he thinks. In his mind and in his heart he thinks I’m a…”

“What makes you think that?” the woman interrupts softly, draping her arm around Edward’s shoulders and hugging the small boy to her. “If he didn’t say it you must have some reason for believing it.”

Lowering his head, Edward stares down at his knees and blinks back fresh tears. “I… sensed it from him,” he confesses in a whisper. “He was in the living room, reading, and I walked in with Arcadia to get my book and… and, I don’t know! Somehow I just… *knew*. He didn’t say anything but I knew what he was thinking. I… I also know that you believe me, that you know I’m not lying. Mother? What’s wrong with me? Am I freak like father thinks?”

“Of course you’re not a freak,” the woman replies, stroking her son’s pale blond hair as he begins to cry in earnest. “You are just… gifted, the last in a long line to carry my family’s bloodline. I thought your gift merely extended to cats and birds but clearly I was wrong, that like your Aunt Maria you also possess the gift of mental sight.” Pausing, the woman blinks back her own tears and kisses Edward’s head. “Do not cry, my darling, for if you are a freak then so am I.”

“Mother?” Edward murmurs questioningly, wiping his eyes on the back of his hand and looking up at his mother expectantly. “You too can… sense what is in peoples’ heads?”

“No, I do not have the ability to read minds,” the woman responds, quickly glancing around the room, her gaze settling on a worn and much loved jointed teddy bear sitting on the dresser. “I can, however, do this,” she continues, smiling as she lifts her hand and points it towards the bear. “Watch.”

His eyes widening in excitement, Edward claps his small hands together in delight as the bear glides across the room towards him. “Magic!” he exclaims, catching the bear as it drops into his lap and hugging it to his chest. “You brought Arthur to me by magic!”

“There are those amongst us who label it witchcraft,” the woman replies, removing her arm from around Edward’s shoulders and pulling a gold chain out from under her turtleneck. “I must admit though to preferring the term magic,” she adds, closing her hand tightly around the Celtic cross hanging from the chain for a moment before holding it towards her son. “I think the time has come to now pass this on to you. Listen carefully to the tale I am about to tell you and always, *always* wear it with pride.”

~*~

Walking through the back door, Edward places his school satchel on the floor alongside the row of old shoes used for gardening in and heads for the kitchen. Dressed in a pristine school uniform, he’s smiling happily until he sees his mother standing by the sink washing dishes. His smile then slips and he shakes his head with evident disapproval. 

“Mother! You should not be having to do dishes in your condition,” he chastises, placing his hand on his mother’s arm and guiding her over to take a seat on one of the kitchen chairs.

“And if I don’t do them, who will?” his mother smiles, wiping her hands on the apron stretched tight over her heavily pregnant belly and allowing herself to be fussed over with a gentle expression of amusement on her face.

“I told you this morning that I would do them when I came home from school,” Edward replies, giving his mother’s shoulder a little pat before retrieving the kettle from the stove and filling it with water. “I do not want you worrying about things and would prefer it if you were to just rest.”

“In case it’s escaped your attention, I *have* been through this before,” she replies facetiously, resting her hands on her stomach and watching her son as he goes through the motions of preparing tea.

“You were younger then,” Edward responds -- in that curiously sage way only children are capable of pulling off without sounding insulting – as he turns to frown at his mother.

“Cheeky!” the woman laughs. “Anyone listening to you could be forgiven for thinking you were twenty as opposed to seven. Besides, who says that I’m worrying about anything? My health is fine and I am looking forward to meeting your new brother or sister.”

Returning his attention to the tea, Edward clenches his hand around the Celtic cross hanging around his neck and sighs softly. “You are worried that father will be disappointed if the baby turns out to be like me,” he murmurs. “You try to hide it from me, but I know. You love father and you want him to have at least one child that he can be proud of.”

“Edward…” Trailing off, the woman lowers her head and unconsciously smoothes her apron over her belly. “I love you, you know that, don’t you? You’re my son and I wouldn’t swap you for anything.”

“I know that,” Edward whispers, releasing his cross in order to turn the stove off and pour the boiling water into the teapot. “Father would though, if given a chance.”

“No he wouldn’t,” his mother replies, the firm tone of her voice at odds with the look of pain and doubt in her eyes. “Now, enough of this talk! Tell me about school. Did you have a good day?”

His expression brightening, Edward carries two cups of tea over to the table and nods happily. “We had a relief teacher and during roll call she couldn’t pronounce our surname,” he giggles, settling himself on the chair opposite his mother. “She’s from England and she got herself in such a mess trying to say it that she kept stuttering. Ch… Chlo… Chloé!” Pausing, he glances down at his lap as, out of nowhere, Arcadia jumps up on to it, before continuing. “It was so funny! All the other children thought so as well and they’ve been calling me Chloé all day.”

“And being called Chloé did not bother you?” his mother queries, taking a sip of her tea.

“No. Not at all,” Edward replies, giving his mother a puzzled look before grinning. “No one meant it nastily, if that’s what you mean. They weren’t teasing me and I… I liked it. It was… fun…”

“Chloé is a girl’s name, you *are* aware of that, aren’t you?” the woman murmurs, returning her son’s happy grin as she places her cup back on the table.

Nodding, Edward looks across at his mother and gives an indifferent shrug. “So?”

~*~

A small boy, his face set in a petulant pout, stands on a street corner and impatiently stamps his feet. “Come on, Chloé!” he yells, gesturing up the street to an older boy as he walks slowly towards him, his nose buried in a book. “I want to get home before father so I can watch television!”

“Television will rot your brain,” Chloé -- the boy formally known as Edward – responds without bothering to look up from the written word in front of him. “You should read instead. It’s better for you, not to mention far less excruciating.”

“Ex-what-iating?” the boy calls back, shaking his head and stamping his feet again. “Come. On! If you don’t hurry up I’m going to tell mother that you got into trouble at school!”

“Like she’d believe you,” Chloé replies, giving a long suffering sigh and lowering his book as he reaches the corner. “As younger brother’s go, Matthew, you really are a true delight. Every morning I wake up and thank God that I was blessed with your charming presence.”

“Crap,” Matthew retorts, running along the street and jumping into the puddles left by the rain that had been falling steadily until lunchtime. “The only thing you do every morning is kiss Arcadia!”

“Charming *and* witty,” Chloé murmurs, lifting his book back up and turning the page. “I really am blessed.”

“Smart ass,” Matthew laughs happily, his mood having lifted at finally being on the move again. With his dark hair and eyes, he’s the very image of his father and looks nothing like either his mother or his brother. His individualistic -- odd socks, untucked shirt, half undone tie -- take on the school uniform is also light years away from his immaculate looking brother and it’s next to impossible to tell that they’re actually related.

Hiding a fond smile behind his book, Chloé suddenly stops and stares up a side street. Cocking his head to one side, he stands perfectly still for a moment before frowning and taking off at a run. “Matthew! Come with me!”

“What? Chloé! Not again,” Matthew whines, dropping his school bag in a puddle of water and running after his brother. “You do this to me on purpose, don’t you?”

“I’m saving you from the perils of television,” Chloé replies over his shoulder as he runs. “You should consider yourself lucky that I’m so caring.”

“Mad, more like,” Matthew mutters, pushing his little legs as hard as he can to keep up. “Chloé! Wait up! Where are we going anyway?”

Reaching another corner, Chloé glances towards the left before turning and pointing to the right. “Down there. See?”

“See? See what?” Matthew pants, looking down the street, his eye brightening with excitement as he notices a large group of people standing around under a huge tree. “Ooooh! Look! What do you think they’re doing?”

“There’s a cat stuck in the tree,” Chloé replies, a faint blush creeping onto his cheeks. “I don’t know whether it called me or whether it was the young girl who owns it… Come on though, now we’re here we may as well go and see if we can help.”

“If anyone can get the stupid animal down, you can,” Matthew replies proudly, grabbing his brother’s hand and pulling him along the street towards the tree. “Cats are cool, but I still think it would be cooler if your… thing… was with dogs,” he continues matter-of-factly. “Think about it! You could train dogs to attack and to…”

“Matthew!” Chloé exclaims, using his free hand to give the boy a gentle smack on the back of the head. “Don’t say horrible things like that. Even if I could I’d never command an animal to attack for me.”

“Boring,” Matthew murmurs, releasing Chloé’s hand as they come up to the group of people standing under the tree, their gazes all locked on the uppermost branches. “You’re cool, but God are you boring!”

“And you’re an annoying little rodent. Now, just stand there and don’t get in anyone’s way,” Chloé replies sweetly, slipping through the crowd and going to stand next to a distraught looking small girl with tears running down her cheeks. Murmuring something to her that only she can hear, she looks up at him imploringly and nods.

“Please. If you could get him down I’d be ever so grateful,” she whispers, a glimmer of hope appearing in her eyes. “His name is Caspian and… and he’s never gotten so high before!”

“It’s okay, I’ll be able to get him down for you,” Chloé replies, picking the girl’s hand up and giving it a reassuring squeeze. “I promise.”

“How?” a middle-aged man interjects with a snort. “Look at you. You look as though a gust of wind would blow you over. If you think I’m going to stand back and let you climb that tree you’ve got another thing coming!”

Giving the man a dismissive look, Chloé smiles serenely and gestures towards the tree. “I have no intention of climbing anything,” he murmurs as the crowd, noticing that the cat is gingerly climbing its way down, gasps. “See? It is done,” he adds, holding his arms out and effortlessly catching the cat as it jumps from the bottom branch towards him. 

“Thank you, thank you!” the girl babbles, taking Caspian from Chloé and squeezing the poor cat tightly enough to make him meow in complaint. “How can I ever thank you?”

“You don’t have to thank me,” Chloé replies, gently loosening the girls arms from around Caspian and giving the cat a few soft pats on the head. “I do, however, recommend, that you give poor Caspian here room to breathe.”

“*Now* can we go home?” Matthew grins, pushing through the crowd of onlookers and tugging on Chloé’s blazer. “If we hurry I might still be able to watch some television.”

“Now we can go home,” Chloé agrees, giving Caspian one last pat before waving goodbye to the girl and walking back down the street. “Come on, Matthew. If you behave yourself and let me read my book in peace I won’t tell mother about how you dropped your school bag in the street.”

“You’re all heart,” Matthew mutters, as a man wearing a black business suit climbs out of a black Volvo parked on the opposite side of the street. Closing the door of his car, he stares, his eyes hidden behind dark glasses, at the boys before crossing the road and walking up to one of the women who’d been standing around under the tree.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” the man murmurs politely. “I was just driving along the street and couldn’t help but see how easily that boy was able to get that cat down from the tree. I apologize if this sounds forward of me, but have you honestly ever seen anything quite like it before?”

“Oh, that was Chloé,” the woman replies with a warm smile. “There isn’t a thing cats won’t do for him. Owls too. Lovely boy. I only wish my own sons were as well behaved and as caring as he is.”

Nodding, the man glances over his shoulder at the boys’ backs as they disappear up the street. “And who was that with him?” he queries. “Does he have any… gifts… as well?”

“Matthew?” the woman laughs, shaking her head. “While, yes, they are brothers, they have nothing in common and Matthew, if he shares any of his mother’s bloodline, hides it well.”

“I see. How interesting. Would you happen to know…”

“Ana!” an old woman barks, cutting the man off and closing a wrinkled hand around the woman’s arm. “You are needed inside,” she continues, giving the man a cold, knowing look as she starts to drag the woman away. “Forgive me, stranger, but we have things we must attend to.”

“Of course, of course,” the man replies, a thin lipped smile settling over his face as he turns around and walks back to his car. “Well, thank you for your time. It was most… informative.”

~*~

On the front passenger seat of the Volvo, visible under the light of a street lamp, lies a brief and to the point telegram.

‘Of interest. Procure. Return immediately to HQ.’

~*~

Cradling Arcadia’s dead body to her chest, the woman sits slumped on the floor in the middle of what had been her oldest son’s bedroom. Too distressed to even cry, she stares at his empty bed through blank eyes and releases a deep, shaky breath. Behind her stand her husband and her youngest son. One is silent and gray while the other is sobbing hysterically.

“I… I don’t understand. Where… Where could he be?”

~*~

\- On The Doorstep Of Hell. Rosenkrus. The Bavarian Alps. Germany -

His back to a large window covered in heavy velvet drapes of the deepest green, an elderly man wearing bifocals and a pinstriped suit in navy blue sits behind an imposing looking antique desk. In his hand he holds a piece of paper that he’s picked up out of the manila folder lying on the desk in front of him. On the paper, printed simply in Times New Roman, is a report detailing the specifics of the school’s latest recruit.

Name - Known as ‘Chloé’  
Date of Birth - 15th of May   
Age - Twelve  
Hair Color - Light blond  
Eye Color - Pale blue  
Skin Type - Caucasian   
Nationality - Romanian  
Height - Average  
Weight – Average  
I.Q. – Above average. Displays particular aptitude for languages.  
Mental State - Disorientated / Depressed  
Family - Parents and younger brother (still alive)

Personal Effects - 1 x Celtic Cross on a belcher chain. Gold.

Memory Block - In place.

Resources to be Allocated - Average

Powers - Strong affinity with felines and, to a lesser extent, birds. Some ability to manipulate plant life noticed during preliminary testing. Mild telepathy (increases during inclement conditions).

Best Match - Strong telepath 

Nodding in a way to indicate his satisfaction with the report, the elderly man places it back in the folder and gazes across the desk to the harsh faced, prematurely balding man sitting opposite him.

“Place him in Section C,” he states, closing the folder and standing up. “There’s enough animals in that group to make him feel right at home.”

~*~

His slightly odd, amber colored eyes bright with excitement, a teenage boy in a vaguely militaristic looking gray uniform runs down a long and deserted corridor, the sound of his leather soled shoes bouncing off the plain white walls and rows of metal lockers. Reaching his destination, a closed wooden door with a small window embedded in it at eye height, he takes a deep breath in an attempt to calm himself and shoves it open.

“Hey! Guess what,” he calls out, stumbling into a room lined on both sides with steel bunks covered in rough gray blankets. “We’re getting a new student! I was helping out in the library when I overheard the Dean and Herr Eisenberg talking about him.”

“You mean, as usual, you were eavesdropping,” a boy with close cropped black hair drawls from the top of a nearby bunk. Lowering the book he’d been reading, he shakes his head and wags his finger at the other boy. “Hans, how many times have I told you that if you get caught listening into things that don’t concern you that you’re going to get yourself into trouble? Super hearing or not, you’re nothing but a common sticky beak.”

“Dream on, Juan, like I’m gonna get caught,” Hans huffs, his chest puffing up with self importance as, slowly, a number of the other boys milling around in the dormitory come to stand by him. Like Hans, they all wear the same gray uniform, although some have a more ‘unique’ take on it -- undone ties, untucked shirts, sleeves rolled up -- than others, and their ages range from prepubescent to late teens. “So? Do you wanna hear about him or not?”

“What are you blithering on about *this* time,” a boy with shaggy orangey-red hair scowls, walking out of the bathroom and flicking the water off his hands into the face of a small blond boy as he sits on a bottom bunk staring blankly into space. Reacting to the droplets of water as though they were acid, the boy cringes against his pillow as though he fully expects to be hit and this causes the redhead to laugh uproariously. “Like I’d honestly bother,” he snorts, giving the bunk a none-too-gentle kick before stalking across the room in Hans’ direction.

“Leave Jeffrey alone,” a boy playing cards with two others on a small table interjects, jumping out of his seat and making to grab the redhead by the arm. With his large violet eyes and purple/black hair, he’s almost effeminately beautiful and, as though wanting to protect him, his two friends, one of Asian descent and the other with longish dark blond hair, immediately jump up to stand alongside him “He hasn’t done anything to you, Schuldig, and you know it.”

“Get fucked, Faith,” Schuldig sneers, evading his hand and sticking his finger up as he continues towards Hans. “If I wanted your know-it-all opinion I would have asked for it.”

His eyes narrowing dangerously, the blond makes to lunge at Schuldig but Faith stops him by placing his hand lightly on his arm. “Leave him, Finlay. He’s just not worth it.”

“But he can’t talk to you like that!” Finlay protests, balling his right hand into a fist and slamming it into his left palm. “Stupid German bastard! I won’t have it! He thinks he’s so Goddamn good and…”

“Leave it,” Faith commands softly, glancing over his shoulder at Schuldig and frowning. “He is not our problem,” he adds with a sigh, sitting back down and picking up his discarded hand of cards. “Now, where were we?”

Shrugging his shoulders in what could be either disappointment or acceptance, Finlay throws himself back down in his chair and picks up his cards. “Jin?” he mutters, clearly making a concentrated effort not to glare daggers at Schuldig and gesturing at the young Asian. “It’s your go.”

Nodding smugly at what he takes to be a victory, Schuldig pokes his tongue out at the back of Faith’s head before reaching out and grabbing Han’s by the lapels of his blazer. “Okay you, cough up the details of our new… *friend*,” he demands. “What’s his specialty?”

“Y-you’re going t-to love this,” Han’s stammers, Schuldig’s proximity to him clearly having a bad effect on his nerves. “He c-can control c-cats.”

“C-cats?” Juan mimics, giving up on reading his book and, dropping it onto the mattress, jumping off the bunk. “C-cats as in tigers and the like, or itty-bitty kitty-cats?”

“I bet it’s itty-bitty kitty-cats,” Schuldig snickers maliciously, giving Hans’ a brusque shake before releasing his lapels and stepping back. “Either way, I’ll eat him for dinner. I mean, *fuck*! Cats! How fucking pathetic is…”

“Schuldig!” a commanding voice barks from the doorway. “Watch that foul mouth of yours.”

“Yes, Herr Eisenberg,” Schuldig murmurs contritely, standing to attention as all the boys in the room stop what they’re doing and follow suit. “Forgive me.”

Ignoring Schuldig’s response, Herr Eisenberg, the harsh faced man from the office, moves back from the door and pushes an immediately recognizable and clearly terrified blond boy into the room.

“Students, meet Chloé, the newest recruit to Section C.”

~*~

The floor-to-ceiling bookshelf stretching for what must seem like miles above his head, Jeffrey stands up on tiptoe and stares helplessly as his fingers can’t quite reach the book he’s after. Sighing softly, he turns around and, through haunted eyes, surveys the rows of boys sitting at the tables behind him, his expression one of despair. The room, with its tall ceilings, lines of polished wood tables and wall-to-wall bookcases, is clearly a library and the boys are all concentrating on either reading or writing assignments. Two male teachers walk silently amongst the rows of tables, their expressions as impassive and as unreadable as their matching black suits and slicked back hairstyles are dull. Both hold a cane in their right hand and the taller of the two lashes out with it at the slightest provocation. 

Closest to Jeffrey sits Schuldig, his attention focused not on the contents of the encyclopedia lying open in front of him but on his ever growing collection of paper planes that he’s fashioning out of pages torn from the leather bound and somewhat antique looking book he’s got hidden on his lap. The teachers, for reasons unknown, ignore him, their gazes pointing studiously in the opposite direction as they pass, and he’s able to go about his business of blithely wasting time unchecked. Occasionally, if he’s wanting to check the maneuverability of his latest creation, he throws a plane across the room to the table containing boys from another section. Some, the braver ones, throw them back to him but the majority, fearing the wrath of the teachers, simply slide their book or notepaper over the offending item, hiding it. One, a tall boy of about fifteen and who has silvery blond hair and unique facial tattoos, and who just happens to be laying a tarot spread out in front of him as opposed to studying, goes so far as to screw the plane up and discard it under the table.

Straightening his shoulders and mouthing a silent prayer for mercy under his breath, Jeffrey reaches across and tentatively taps Schuldig on the back. “Excuse me,” he whispers nervously, “but I was wondering if you’d be able to…”

“No,” Schuldig interrupts bluntly, sneering at Jeffrey and throwing a small paper plane directly at his face. “Whatever it is you want, get it your damn self.”

“But…” Holding his hand out towards Schuldig in what he probably hopes is a placating gesture, Jeffrey bites down on his bottom lip before raising the courage to try again. “Please, Schuldig. I need this book in order to be able to finish my assignment which is due up at the end of this…”

“Tell someone who cares,” Schuldig mutters, once again cutting Jeffrey off and, with a huff of exasperation, turning back around to face the table. “Idiot.”

“But…” Trailing off, Jeffrey struggles to blink back tears. “If I don’t get it I won’t be able to…”

Looking up from his position at the end of the table, Chloé glances at Jeffrey and frowns. He then, as Jeffrey turns back to the bookcase and seriously begins to look as though he’s considering climbing it, stands up silently and walks over to him. “If you’ll just tell me the book you want, I’ll get it for you,” he offers.

“The big blue one,” Jeffrey replies, his eyes widening in surprise as he looks at Chloé, disbelief written all over his small face. “I want the big blue one.”

Nodding, Chloé reaches up and retrieves the book. “Here you go,” he states softly, handing the book to Jeffrey and, as the tall teacher advances towards them, his cane at the ready, slipping swiftly back to his seat.

“Everyone in their chairs, *now*!” the teacher commands, glaring at Jeffrey as he scurries back to his chair. “In case you’ve forgotten, no one is allowed to leave their seats without permission.”

The teacher’s dictatorial speech making no impact on him, the silvery haired boy calmly shuffles his tarot deck and, with a dismissive glance at the teacher, pushes back his chair and stands up. Picking a seemingly random card from the deck, he walks over to where Chloé is sitting and, without saying a word, places it face down in front of him. This done, he returns to his chair and, as the majority of the room’s occupants stare at him in surprise, sits back down.

Lightly tracing his finger along the card, Chloé hesitates over turning it over and only brings himself to pick it up when Faith, who’s sitting next to him, gives him a gentle nudge in the ribs with his elbow. 

“Go on,” Faith whispers. “This is the first time I’ve seen Free give a card to anyone, so, really, you should view it as an honor.”

Not looking exactly convinced, Chloé nods and quickly flips the card over to reveal the Strength card from the Major Arcana.

“He’s right,” Faith smiles, patting Chloé’s arm before picking his pen back up and beginning to write on his note paper. “You have to be strong.”

~*~

Dropping the delicate pink rose he’d just picked from the climbing bush that covers the stone wall, Chloé stares, open mouthed and horrified, at the redheaded, ranting banshee advancing towards him. Blood runs in a thin line from Schuldig’s left nostril and this, coupled with his ashen complexion and the fact blood vessels have popped in both of his eyes, makes him look like the living embodiment of a nightmare brought to life.

“You fucking little Romanian bastard!” Schuldig snarls, grabbing Chloé by the shirtfront and shoving him into the rose bush. “All you fucking had to do was what they told you!” he continues, shaking him like a rag doll, his blood stained eyes bright with rage. 

“W-what?” Chloé stammers, making no attempt to protect himself from Schuldig’s attack and all but going completely limp in shock. “Schuldig? What h-have I done? I’m sorry. Whatever it is I didn’t mean…”

“Shut up!” Schuldig exclaims, lifting his hand in preparation of slapping Chloé. “This is your fault and I’m going to fucking kill you!”

“Leave him alone, Schu,” Faith states coolly, walking up alongside Schuldig and closing his hand around the redhead’s wrist. “He didn’t know this would happen and, as such, you can’t blame him.”

Shaking off Faith’s hand, Schuldig gives Chloé one last vicious shove, causing him to fall backwards onto the grass and whirls around to face him. “Back off, Faith,” he mutters menacingly, grinding the fallen rose under the heel of his shoe. “This is between me and… *Rosebud* here. Not you!”

“You heard Faith, get over it already,” Finlay drawls, moving out from behind Faith and intentionally knocking into Schuldig. “Go on. I’m sorry you were the one they chose but, come on, shit happens. As Faith said, Chloé didn’t know.”

Narrowing his eyes, Schuldig stares at Faith and Finlay for a moment before leaning forward and pushing his face in Chloé’s. “They may have saved you this time,” he hisses, “but they won’t always be around and, when that day comes, you’re mine. Hear me? *Mine*!”

“Fuck off, Schu,” Finlay states cheerfully, snagging his finger under the collar of Schuldig’s blazer and pulling him upright. “While, as always, it’s been a pleasure, I’m over your presence now and want you gone.”

“You’ll get yours,” Schuldig sneers, wiping the blood from his nose on the cuff of his shirt as he slowly begins to walk away. “All of you. You’ll fucking get it if it’s the last thing I do.”

“I swear that guy just loves the sound of his own voice,” Finlay comments, watching Schuldig stalk off as Faith helps Chloé to his feet. “Git.”

“I… I don’t understand,” Chloé murmurs, gazing at Faith imploringly. “What did I do? I… I try to avoid Schuldig and would never intentionally do anything to annoy him.”

“When you were alone with the instructors a little while ago, did you do what they wanted you to?” Faith queries, brushing grass from Chloé’s blazer before taking his hand and beginning to, with Finlay wandering along at his other side, lead him inside.

“No. I… I wouldn’t do it,” Chloé replies, shaking his head and frowning. “They wanted me to make an owl attack a mannequin that they had set up for the purpose and I refused. She was as frightened as I was and, besides, I’d never command an animal to attack. It would be… wrong.”

“That explains it then,” Faith sighs, sharing a troubled look with Finlay behind Chloé’s head. “The instructors should have explained this to you but clearly, for their own nefarious reasons they chose not to. Listen to me though, while this certainly isn’t something I happen to agree with, it’s how things are and you’ll have to learn to accept them. When they’re testing you, if you refuse to attempt what it is they’re telling you to do, instead of punishing you directly they choose another student from your group and make them pay for what is essentially, in their eyes, *your* failing. In this case it looks like they chose Schuldig to punish…”

“Oh dear God…” Paling, Chloé swallows hard and stares down at his feet. “I… I’m so sorry. I didn’t know. If I’d known I could have at least pretended to do as they asked.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Finlay states, clapping Chloé warmly on the back as they reach the door to take them inside. “It’s just one of those things. You didn’t know and now you do. Come on, let’s go find Jin and return to the dorm. Do you know any card games?”

Smiling at his friend and nodding his thanks to him, Faith squeezes Chloé’s hand before releasing it in order to drape his arm around his shoulders. “It’s okay if you don’t,” he murmurs gently, “as we’d be happy to teach you, wouldn’t we, Finlay?”

“You betcha,” Finlay grins, glancing behind him and giving Schuldig a cool look as the redhead glares at their retreating backs. “You’re one of us now.”

Lifting his head, Chloé looks first at Finlay and then at Faith. “Thank you,” he whispers wanly. “I think I would like some friends.”

~*~

“I am, you do of course realize, perfectly capable of finding my own way back,” Faith mutters, glancing over his shoulder to glower at the stiff backed and expressionless teacher walking down the darkened corridor behind him. “Not to mention, even if I was going to mount a daring escape, I’d hardly do so in my pajamas now, would I?” he continues with a long suffering sigh as the teacher calmly lifts his arm and points further down the corridor. “Fine. Escort me then. See if I care.”

“That’s enough out of you, Faith,” the teacher states monotonously. “You’re getting a smart mouth on you and you’d do well to watch it. I don’t care if the Elders think you’re the second coming as, to me, you’re just like all your little cronies waiting for you in the dormitory in that you’re nothing but a freak.”

Silently mouthing the teacher’s rebuke, Faith pulls a face and comes to a stop in front of the dormitory door. “Can I interest you in a nightcap?” he murmurs facetiously, opening the door and quickly ducking away from the teacher’s outstretched hand as it makes a sudden grab for him. “I’ll take that as a no, shall I?”

“Faith!” the teacher exclaims, the corner of his mouth twitching as he fights for composure. “Do not think you are immune to punishment just because the Dean has big plans for you.”

Shrugging insolently, Faith doesn’t bother acknowledging the teacher’s veiled threat and walks into the room. Roused by the sound of the door opening, the boys who aren’t already in bed make a swift beeline for their bunks and, their timing down to a fine art, are settled under their blankets before the teacher has made it into the doorway. One boy, Jin, however makes no attempt to move away from his position near the door and, as Faith passes him, he reaches out and closes his hand lightly around his arm.

“He’s done it again,” he declares softly, tilting his head in the direction of the top bunk where Schuldig, propped up by a mountain of pillows that he’s commandeered from many of the other bunks, is feigning interest in a book. “That’s four in as many nights now.”

“Shit!” Faith hisses, his eyes hardening as, behind the cover of his book, Schuldig sticks his finger up at him. “What I want to know is where he’s getting them… No. Never mind. Where’s Chloé?”

“Dry retching on the bathroom floor,” Jin replies, his hand still closed around Faith’s arm. “Finlay’s watching over him though, so you don’t have to worry. What about you? What did they want?”

“I’m fine. The Dean just wanted to test something, that’s all,” Faith murmurs dismissively, shaking off Jin’s hand and, with one last ominous look at Schuldig, starting to walk towards the bathroom. “I’d better go and…”

“What’s going on here?” the teacher demands, striding past Faith into the bathroom and roughly hauling Chloé, who’d been leaning limply over a toilet bowl, to his feet by the back of his gray pajama top. “You! Get back into bed *now*!”

“No! No… Please… I can’t!” Chloé protests weakly, trying unsuccessfully to break away from the teacher’s vice-like grip. His skin deathly pale and bathed in a thin sheen of sweat, he looks both as though he’s seen a particularly horrid looking ghost *and* as though he’s rapidly nearing breaking point. “Please! You’ve got to get rid of it!”

“Sir, if you’d just…”

“Lights out. *Now*!” the teacher shouts, cutting off Finlay mid entreaty and dragging Chloé out into the dormitory.

“You can’t… Please. Don’t make me do this,” Chloé pleads, his eyes wild as he does everything he can to get free of the teacher’s hand. “I… I’ll sleep on the floor! Just… Don’t make me get into bed!”

“You heard Herr Waechter, Rosebud,” Schuldig pipes up, putting his book down and putting on a show of doing exactly as he’s told and settling down as though to go to sleep. “Shut up and get into bed.”

“No! Please…”

“*Quiet*!” Herr Waechter barks, abruptly releasing Chloé’s top and sending him sprawling to the floor. “I want everyone in a bed and I want them in it now!”

“Prick,” Finlay whispers to a clearly seething Faith as he passes him. “It’s okay though. I’ll sleep there. Chloé can have my bed for the night. Don’t piss off Waechter, Faith, it’s not worth it.”

His expression softening, Faith nods his thanks to Finlay and walks over to help Chloé up off the floor. “Come on. Just forget about it and get into bed.

“But…” Looking across at Finlay as, after removing the case from the pillow, he pulls back the bedding and wraps the body of the dead kitten in it before calmly handing it to Herr Waechter, Chloé shakes his head and curls his fingers around Faith’s arm. “Finlay… He doesn’t have to… Not because of me…”

“It’s okay, he volunteered and he knows what he’s doing,” Faith replies, pulling Chloé towards an empty bunk as, with a look of disgust, Waechter reluctantly takes the small body from Finlay. “Come on, before Waechter’s temper really blows.”

“I…” Falling silent, Chloé nods miserably and, with one last look at Finlay as he climbs onto the mattress, allows Faith to help him into the bottom bunk. “I’m so pathetic,” he adds quietly as Jin hovers by Faith’s side for a moment before climbing onto the top mattress of the next bunk. “I never meant to hurt Schuldig and now he hates me and I… I make life difficult for everyone else and…”

“Shhh…” Faith murmurs, hesitating for a moment before reaching out his hand to gently cup Chloé’s cheek. “You just need to sleep,” he continues, closing his eyes and breathing deeply. 

When he opens his eyes, Chloé is sound asleep and Jin is looking down on him with a coolly appraising look on his face.

“Whatever it is you just did to him,” he whispers, “I trust it is something he is going to wake from.”

Sighing, Faith takes his hand away from Chloé’s cheek and shrugs tiredly. “That makes two of us,” he replies dully, standing up straight and glaring across the room to Schuldig’s bunk. “What else could I do though? I had to try something.”

~*~

Stretching languidly in the small patch of sunlight -- that’s streaming into the corridor from the high set windows -- he’s sitting in, Finlay smirks and pokes his finger into Jin’s ankle. “You know, if not for that dragon sitting there staring at you, I didn’t mind that,” he comments. “I didn’t mind it at all.”

“I could have done without the experience,” Jin responds, stepping away from Finlay and going over to stand with Faith on the other side of the corridor.

“So could have I,” Faith mutters, scowling. “I’m not saying it’s not… natural, but doing it for their twisted purposes isn’t right. In fact I think it’s…” Trailing off as the door they’re all milling around opens, Faith’s expression brightens and he smiles. “Chloé! We’ve been waiting for you.”

“Well, that was… distasteful,” Chloé murmurs, wiping his hands repeatedly on his trousers as he steps into the corridor. “There wasn’t even anything to wash up with.”

“Hell, am I the only one who thought it was kinda okay?” Finlay laughs, jumping to his feet and clapping Chloé on the back. “You poor little innocent, you! You should see your face. You look absolutely mortified by the entire experience.”

“It was distasteful,” Chloé repeats, frowning down at his hands before stuffing them into his pockets, out of sight. “Plus I fail to see why it was something they needed to… collect. Surely there would have been more… information… to be had from the blood they took yesterday.”

“Blood is good for study, but they need the… other… for their experiments in cloning,” Faith replies matter-of-factly as, together, the four teenagers begin to walk along the corridor. “From hearing the doctors talk during some of my tests, I think they are wanting to create the perfect freak. And, Chloé’s right, it *is* distasteful.”

“Oh.” Wrinkling his nose, Chloé’s frown intensifies and he shakes his head. “I actually think I would have preferred not to have known that.”

“Oh God, check it out,” Finlay grins, grabbing Jin and pulling him to one side of the corridor as Faith and Chloé flatten themselves against the other side in order to let, sandwiched between two bored looking older boys, a struggling and protesting Jeffrey past.

“No! I don’t want to!” Jeffrey shouts anxiously, clearly in the grips of a panic attack. “I… I won’t do it! You can’t make me!”

“Of course they can fucking make you do it,” one of the boy’s mutters, rolling his eyes as his partner opens the door to the room and, together, they shove Jeffrey through it. “Christ,” he adds, helping close the door before turning around and walking back up the corridor. “He really is gullible. Poor fool.”

“What’s up with Jeffrey *this* time?” Finlay queries as they walk past. “He looked like he was having a right fit.”

“That’s because Schuldig told him that touching himself, you know, down *there* is going to make him blind,” the boy who’d opened the door grins. “As you could see, the idiot believed him too.”

“They’re right, Jeffrey really is too gullible for his own good,” Finlay smirks as, the excitement over for the time being, the four continue on their way along the corridor. “I mean, if it really did make you blind Schuldig would already be needing a seeing-eye dog to get his way around! Have you heard him when he’s at it? Some nights…”

“Finlay! That’s enough,” Faith groans, choking back laughter. “You’ve now planted mental images in my head that I think will be only erased by beating you hands down at poker. What do you say, Jin, Chloé, are you in?”

“So long as I can wash my hands first,” Chloé smiles, looking, for the first time since he’d been brought to Rosenkrus, almost carefree. “I’m in.”

~*~

\- In The Wide Open Arms Of Hell. Rosenkrus. Three Years In. -

His attention far removed from the text book lying open on the table, Faith twirls a pencil through his fingers and stares vacantly at the bookcase running along the wall in front of him. Every so often, proving once and for all that his concentration is elsewhere, the pencil drops from his fingers and lands with a dull thud on the pages of the book. Unperturbed by this, Faith, without looking or giving any indication of annoyance, quickly retrieves the pencil and, within a second of it falling, it’s back being entwined aimlessly around his fingers. 

Sitting to his left, and staring at the pencil as though transfixed, is Jeffrey, while both the seat to his right and directly opposite him is empty. The rest of table, barring two free seats near the door, is taken up with boys from Section C. A young teacher sits at the head of the table, his attention fixed solely on the pages of the Stephen King novel he’s reading.

Slowly, the library door opens and Finlay and Jin slip silently into the room. Ensnared in a different reality to the one surrounding him, the teacher doesn’t so much as glance in their direction and continues reading.

Sharing a relieved smile with Jin, Finlay walks over to Faith and, pulling Chloé’s Celtic cross from his pocket, dangles it over his friend’s head. “I’ll give you one guess who had it,” he whispers, sitting down in the empty seat next to Faith as Jin walks around the table to take the seat opposite. “The insane bastard was even stupid enough to be wearing it.”

“This has got to stop,” Faith sighs, placing his pencil on the table and taking the cross from Finlay. “Where’s Chloé now?”

“He’s sitting in his favorite spot in the garden, you know, near the climbing rose,” Jin murmurs, leaning across the table so as to keep the conversation as private as possible. “Section B are out there too, so it’s okay. Free’s keeping watch over him.”

“Speaking of which,” Finlay replies, shrugging, “what gives with those two anyway. I’ve never actually seen Free speak to Chloé yet, I don’t know, he always seems as though he’s keeping an eye on him or something. If you ask me it’s a bit odd.”

“Perhaps he’s seen that they play a part in each other’s future or something,” Faith suggests, closing his fingers around the cross and frowning. “I… Damn! This harassment has got to stop,” he continues flatly. “I know Schuldig’s decided that Chloé is his mortal enemy but, really, he’s taking things far too far. He’s also running… wild… in a way that makes me wonder whether there’s more to it, that we’re missing something.”

“Ex-excuse me,” Jeffrey whispers, tentatively reaching out to brush his fingers lightly across Faith’s hand and causing tiny blue sparks of electricity to flare between them. “Oh! Oh, Faith… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…”

“Whoa, Jeffrey, calm down,” Finlay mutters, leaning back in his chair and, reaching behind Faith, poking Jeffrey in the arm. “Given that Faith’s hair isn’t standing on end, I think it’s safe to say you haven’t exactly done him any lasting damage so, come on, chill.”

“I’m sorry,” Jeffrey repeats, instinctively cringing as, with a bemused expression on his face, Faith slowly turns around to look at him. “It’s just that… I’m sorry! I’m nervous because there’s a chance you might be mad that I happened to hear some of what you were talking about and...”

“Jeffrey, it’s all right,” Jin interjects, keeping one eye on the still oblivious teacher as he tries to reassure the younger boy that it’s okay, that he hasn’t accidentally electrocuted Faith. “Think about it for a minute. Has Faith ever got mad at you or hurt you?”

“N-no,” Jeffrey stammers, shaking his head. “It’s just… I shouldn’t have been listening, but I was and…”

“It’s okay, Jeffrey,” Faith murmurs, still looking bemused as, being careful not to touch any exposed skin, he closes his hand around the boy’s forearm. “You didn’t hurt me and I’m not mad at you for listening. If you’ve got something you’d wish to say to me, however, I’d like to hear it.”

“It… It’s about Schuldig,” Jeffrey replies softly, staring down at Faith’s hand as though he can hardly believe someone is actually touching him. “I think I might know why it is he’s… to use your description… running wild.”

“You do?” Finlay queries, raising an eyebrow and looking far from convinced. “Come on then, hit us with it.”

“You know those pills, Faith, the ones the nurses make all the telepaths take,” Jeffrey murmurs, lowering his voice so as to speak in a confidential whisper, “Schuldig’s spitting his out and not taking them.”

“But those pills are meant to keep our powers under check,” Faith replies, his brow furrowing as he realizes the implications of what it is Jeffrey is telling him. “They make us take them so we don’t… revolt… or abuse our powers in a way not sanctioned by the Dean. If Schuldig’s not on the pills, then… Oh God. It doesn’t bear thinking about. Jeffrey, how do you happen to know this?”

“I overheard Schuldig bragging about it to Juan,” Jeffrey responds, blushing. “It’s not that I make a habit of listening in to what others are talking about,” he adds hurriedly as Finlay gives him a suspicious look. “Honest. It’s just that I was in the bathroom while they were and…”

“I believe you,” Faith interrupts, his expression unreadable as he removes his hand from Jeffrey’s arm and stands up. “Thank you for that piece of information, Jeffrey,” he continues, giving the teacher a dismissive look and slipping the cross into the pocket of his blazer. “Now, if you’ll excuse me I’m going to go and return this to its rightful owner.”

“So what do you think happens now?” Finlay mutters, glancing worriedly at Jin as Faith walks out of the library.

Meeting his gaze, Jin shrugs and drums his finger silently on the table top. “I’m not entirely sure I want to know.”

~*~

“And how are you on this fine morning?” Schuldig queries, winking and flashing a smile at the elderly and sour faced nurse as she counts out three pills into his outstretched hand. “You’re looking, I have to say, particularly…”

“Save it for someone stupid enough to actually buy your bullshit,” the nurse interrupts, scowling at Schuldig and crossing her arms over her none-too-inconsiderable chest barely contained with the stiff confines of her starched uniform. “Go on. Take the damn things already so I can move on.”

“Anything for you,” Schuldig responds, bowing as he pops the pills into his mouth. “There,” he adds, straightening up and grinning wolfishly. “All gone.”

“I can die happy, knowing that,” the nurse replies sarcastically, retrieving another three pills from her trolley before moving across to the stand in front of the boy next to Schuldig. “You! One word from you and you’re going to regret having gotten out of bed this morning!”

Nodding nervously, the boy takes the pills from the nurse and quickly dry swallows them. 

“Good boy,” the nurse mutters, rolling her trolley a little further down the row of boys waiting for their pills.

Once her back is to him, Schuldig, with a casual glance along the line, spits his pills into the palm of his hand and calmly slips them into his pocket. He then smiles to himself, stifles a yawn as though the entire procedure is boring him, and stretches.

Standing a little back from the row, his bland expression belying nothing of what it is he’s thinking, Faith watches Schuldig through disinterested eyes. When the nurse arrives in front of him to hand him his pills, he takes them from her with a serene smile and, under her watchful gaze, dutifully swallows them.

He then, as she moves on to the boy standing next to him, hesitates for a moment, before, with a resigned shrug, spitting the pills into his hand and shoving them into the top pocket of his blazer.

~*~

“Lost something?” Faith murmurs, carefully placing the Celtic cross over Chloé’s head as the blond teenager sits, hugging his knees to his chest, on the lawn, his back pressed up against the rose covered wall.

Looking up from the dusky pink rose held loosely in his hand, Chloé blinks at Faith and smiles grimly. “Thank you,” he whispers as, his expression troubled, Faith sits down on the grass next to him. “You… You don’t have to, you know. If Schuldig wants it so badly perhaps it would be less hassle to everyone if I were to simply let him have it.”

“Don’t be silly,” Faith replies, shaking his head as, settling his back against the wall, he glances across at Chloé. “The cross is yours and, so long as we have any say in it, it’s going to *remain* yours. Besides, while I don’t exactly know how I feel about this, I think Finlay actually enjoys retrieving it for you. God knows he’s usually smiling both when he goes after Schuldig *and* when he comes back with it in his pocket.”

“Well… It’s very kind of him,” Chloé murmurs, returning his gaze to his rose, “of… of all you, actually. I’m… grateful. I… I don’t know what I’d do without the three of you.”

“Chloé…” Trailing off, Faith tilts his head back and stares up at the cloudless blue sky. “I know… I know what Schuldig is doing to you,” he states softly, the words spilling out of his mouth in a rush as, cautiously, he glances back at Chloé. “I’m not asking you to talk about it, but…”

“How? How do you know?” Chloé queries faintly, hugging his knees tighter to his chest and literally cringing at Faith’s proximity. “Is he… bragging… about it? Do the others know?”

“No, the others don’t know,” Faith replies, wafting his hand over Chloé’s hunched shoulders but stopping short of actually touching him. “And, no, the bastard isn’t bragging about it. I only know… because I can read it from you. I can sense your pain… and… shame. Chloé…”

“It doesn’t matter,” Chloé mutters, cutting Faith off and staring through too bright eyes at his knees. “I’m sorry that you know but, please, just let it go. It’s not something I wish to talk about.”

“I can’t. I can’t just let it go,” Faith responds adamantly, frowning at his hand, at his indecision, and curling his fingers into a fist. “I want to be able to help you. I… I don’t know how, but surely there must be something I can do. This… Hell! This can’t go on! You’re not even sixteen and…”

“Please, just let it go,” Chloé repeats beseechingly, risking a fleeting glance at Faith. “While he’s… busy… with me he’s leaving everyone else alone. Look, for example, at Jeffrey. He’s no longer as nervous as he used to be now that Schuldig’s not picking on him. Besides, I’m… I’m used to it. It… It doesn’t even bother me any more.”

“Chloé, no!” Faith exclaims, uncurling his fingers and, without pausing to think about what he’s doing, closing his hand tightly around Chloé’s shoulder. “This isn’t right. While I can’t deny that it’s a noble thought, you can’t allow yourself to be Schuldig’s… toy… in order to protect others. It’s not right and it’s not fair on you. I… Goddamn it! I want to be able to help you.”

“Then be my friend,” Chloé murmurs, slowly unfolding himself and shyly holding his rose out towards Faith. “That’s all I ask. Just… be my friend.”

~*~

Slipping silently down from his top bunk, Faith leans over the bottom mattress in order to ensure that Chloé is asleep before moving across to the next bunk and quickly shaking its inhabitants, Finlay and Jin, awake.

“Come with me,” he commands quietly, gesturing towards the bathroom door as his friends groggily sit up and blink blearily at him. “I want to talk to you both.”

Nodding his acceptance, Jin climbs out of the bottom bunk as, throwing the bedding back and yawning broadly, Finlay jumps down from the top. “What about Chloé?” Finlay queries, tilting his head at the sleeping teenager. “Aren’t you going to wake him too?”

“No,” Faith states with a quick shake of his head as, grabbing Finlay’s hand, he starts to pad over to the bathroom. “Chloé needs his sleep and, well, I don’t really think he’s quite up to hearing what it is I’m about to tell you anyway.”

“That sounds ominous,” Finlay comments, giving Jin a concerned look as, entering the bathroom, he pulls the door shut behind him. “What’s up, Faith? If it’s got something to do with why you’ve been so quiet, and dare I say, secretive, just recently then I’m all ears.”

Sighing heavily, Faith releases Finlay’s hand and goes to lean his back against the wall by the basins. “An unexpected outcome of stopping taking the pills,” he starts softly, “is that, along with the full extent of my powers, snippets of my memory have started coming back to me. My… *true*… memory.”

“Your *true* memory?” Jin echoes, looking puzzled. “I’m sorry, Faith, but I don’t really know what you mean by that.”

“Jin, Finlay, why is it that you’re here at Rosenkrus?” Faith queries somewhat cryptically, running his fingers through his hair and sighing again.

“You know why we’re here as well as we do,” Finlay retorts, shrugging. “My parents were killed in a car accident and, having no living relatives and what the authorities referred to as ‘unnatural speed and strength’, I ended up being shipped here as some sort of orphan.”

“And I was… rescued… from an orphanage in Beijing after my parents placed me there when I was three because they couldn’t cope with all the fires I kept inadvertently lighting,” Jin adds, frowning. “As Finlay said, you know of all of this already, Faith. It’s common knowledge. Just as it is that Chloé’s parents handed him over to Rosenkrus because they couldn’t deal with the fact he was different, and your parents were murdered in a bungled robbery. We’re all orphans or wards of the state.” 

“What if I were to tell you that that’s only what they *want* us to believe, that none of it is actually true?” Faith replies with another sigh. “What you believe to be the truth is actually a lie planted in your head by Herr Vogler. In order to… collect… those they believe capable of furthering their cause, Rosenkrus send scouts around the world looking for… gifted… children. They then, through whatever means necessary, take them away from their families and bring them here. Some parents, unable to cope with having a child that is different, simply hand them over. Others either refuse or aren’t even asked. In these cases the result seems to be always the same as the scout then simply abducts the child.”

“That… That’s bollocks!” Finlay exclaims, pacing the length of the bathroom and looking clearly agitated. “I know Rosenkrus are a pack of down and out assholes but… Shit! That’s just taking things too far. Are you sure you’re right about this, Faith?”

Nodding, Faith reaches out and grabs Finlay’s arm as he passes. “I am confident, yes,” he murmurs. “While my own past is… vague… at best, I can actually *see* the memory blocks that have been planted in your heads and have been able to look through them. Take Chloé for example. He was taken from his bed. His parents didn’t give him up at all. And Jeffrey, his mother put up such a fight for him that the scout actually killed her in order to obtain his… goal. Since following Schuldig’s lead and stopping taking the pills these… facts… have slowly come to me and I think you have a right to know them too.”

“What of Schuldig?” Jin queries, walking over to stand next to Faith and Finlay so that the three of them form a triangle. “Would his past have come to him too?”

“Schuldig is the only example I know of where the story we all know appears to be the truth,” Faith responds, a pained expression crossing his face. “His mother *did* die giving birth to him and his father *did* hand him over to Rosenkrus on the eve of his first birthday. So, to him, all stopping the pills has achieved is a return of his full powers.”

Snorting, Finlay pulls his arm away from Faith’s hand and fold his arms across his chest. “Stuff Schuldig,” he mutters, scowling. “Why now, Faith? You’ve been off those damn pills for months and I want to know why you’re only just telling us now…”

“I’m telling you now because I’m nearing my eighteenth birthday and because they’re preparing to move me out,” Faith replies flatly. “I also didn’t tell you any earlier because I wanted to be certain first.”

“And you are now certain,” Jin mutters, his eyes hardening as he abruptly grabs both of Faith’s hands in his. “I would like, if it is possible, to see what it is you have seen. Can you do that for me?”

“I… I can do that for you,” Faith murmurs slowly, glancing at Finlay. “Finlay? Do you wish to see too? It won’t be… easy… but if it’s what it will take for you to believe me then… then it’s something I’m prepared to do.”

“Sure,” Finlay mutters, nodding. “I can always do with yet another reason to hate the sadistic bastards that run this place. One thing I want to know first though is… well… what can we do next? Do we just soldier on pretending that everything is the same as it’s always been, or do we…”

“While as of this moment I have no specific plans in place,” Faith interrupts, his voice dropping to barely above that of a whisper, “I say we begin to contemplate ways of escape.”

~*~

Stepping through the doorway into a deserted corridor, Schuldig stretches and glances impatiently over his shoulder. “Christ, you two are fucking slow. Come on, get a move on,” he complains, tapping his finger on his watch as two other boys sheepishly walk out of the room. One of the boys, who has short brown hair and small, empty eyes, smirks at Schuldig and gives him a hi-five, while the other hesitates over stepping fully into the corridor.

“I don’t know about this,” the boy announces nervously, unable to look Schuldig in the eye and scuffing the toe of his shoe along the gray linoleum floor. “He seems… I don’t know… a bit messed up and I’m wondering if someone shouldn’t perhaps, you know, stay with him.”

“Stay with him?” Schuldig snorts, grabbing the boy by his shirt front and propelling him along the corridor. “And do what? Hold his fucking hand? Now. Shut up and let’s get back to the library before that idiot teacher actually notices we’re not there.”

Not looking entirely convinced, the boy glances behind him at the door they’d all just come out of before shrugging and continuing down the corridor. “I… Never mind.”

“That’s a good boy,” Schuldig smirks, clapping the boy hard on the back as the three of them get in step. “Keep your useless comments to yourself. If you don’t I mightn’t let you play with my toy again.”

His last statement amusing both himself and the brown haired boy, the two of them start to laugh as, reaching the end of the corridor, the three turn to the left and disappear.

In the laundry, which is the room Schuldig and his acolytes had just slunk from, Chloé clings to the edge of an industrial size metal basin, his body doubled over and his knuckles white as he throws up into it. His uniform, which usually looks well cared for and pristine, is in complete disarray, with his blazer lying discarded on the floor and his shirt both creased and untucked. His tie, which has been jerked away from his collar and is pulled tight against the bare skin of his neck, lies not down his chest but down his back. Going by the angry looking red marks on the base of his throat it appears as though the tie has been used as some sort of leash.

Groping blindly for the tap, Chloé turns the water on and splashes water haphazardly on his face before backing unsteadily away from the sink and banging up against a washing machine. Putting his hand out to steady himself, his fingers brush across a metal coat hanger lying on top of the machine and, as an anguished moan escapes his mouth, he snatches it up before slumping down heavily on his knees to the floor.

For a second he just breathes deeply as he clutches the coat hanger in both hands. Then, with another moan, he starts to straighten out the hanger’s hook. Although his hands are shaking from what Schuldig had just put him through, it doesn’t take long for the hook to have been smoothed out into a thin strip of metal and once it’s done he, without hesitation, scrapes the tip of it across his left wrist. As the blood begins to gush out of the wound, he swaps hands and repeats the slashing gesture on his right wrist.

This done, the coat hanger falls from his fingers and, with blood pooling around him, he collapses, curling into the fetal position, on to the cold hard floor.

“I’m sorry, Faith,” he whispers faintly to the empty laundry as his life ebbs away from him. “I… I thought I could do it, but I… can’t. I’m not… strong… enough… Forgive… me… Please…”

~*~

Outside a white door marked with the recognizable the world over red cross, Faith paces backwards and forwards, his expression an almost eerie mask of calm, as Jin, his eyes closed and his arms folded across his chest, leans against the wall. Neither speak nor even look at each other.

Suddenly, the noise he’s making running both loud and harsh in the otherwise silent hospital wing, Finlay bursts through the double doors at the end of the corridor and comes flying towards Faith. Dangling from his fingers is Chloé’s Celtic cross and his hair, which is hardly controlled under normal circumstances, is standing up in all directions. Blood is also dribbling out of a cut on his lips and his eyes -- in direct contrast to that of his friends’ -- are bright with emotion.

“He put up a fight?” Jin questions blandly, pushing away from the wall and walking over to peer at Finlay’s lip.

Handing the cross to Faith, Finlay rubs the back of his hand along his mouth to clean up the blood and scowls. “No,” he mutters sourly, shaking his head. “I started it. I also before you ask, finished it. If I could have I would have killed the insane fucking bastard! God knows it’s what he deserves.”

“Killing Schuldig wouldn’t undo the damage he has already caused,” Faith intones grimly, curling his fingers around the cross and pressing it tightly into the palm of his hand. “That said, I… I can not find it in myself to disagree with you and trust that he came out of the fight far worse than you did.”

“He came off worse, trust me,” Finlay retorts, his expression softening as he glances towards the door emblazoned with the red cross. “Have you heard anything? Is he… you know… going to be okay?”

“He will live, yes,” Faith responds dully, his own expression hardening as he looks through Finlay and gazes towards the door. “They… the sadistic powers that be… have already said that he can be released back to the dormitory as soon as tomorrow morning. They’re also refusing to call a healer in to help seal the wounds as they want him to have the scars as a constant reminder of how… weak… he is, how much of a… failure… he is…”

His voice breaking, Faith trails off and, without warning, spins around and gives the wall a vicious kick. “He can’t… Chloé can’t survive this!” he exclaims, his agitation and grief palpable. “What’s more, it’s my fault! If I’d stood up to Schuldig… If I’d insisted he let me help him… Christ! It’s not Chloé who’s failed here, it’s me. I’m to blame. I should have put more effort into planning our escape and…”

“So we go now,” Jin states matter-of-factly, cutting Faith off and placing his hand gently on his friend’s shoulder. “If you think you can get us out of here, we take Chloé and we don’t look back.”

A look of determination settling across his face, Faith straightens his shoulders and nods. “Yes,” he murmurs quietly, “we go now. That’s an excellent suggestion, Jin, and I thank you for making it. Finlay, do you think you’d be able to carry Chloé?”

“Oh hell yeah!” Finlay replies, his excitement at the thought of escaping making him bounce up and down on the spot. “If it’s what it will take I can carry him all night and all day if I need too!”

“Good. You can go and get him then,” Faith murmurs, gesturing towards the door as he gazes along the length of the corridor. “Please, be gentle though. He’s heavily sedated but, if it can be at all helped, I don’t want him to suffer any more than he already has.”

“Of course,” Finlay grins, grabbing Faith’s hand and giving it a quick squeeze. “You can count on me. I’ll be so gentle that he won’t even know that he’s being moved.”

“Thank you,” Faith whispers, his attention shifting from Finlay to the cleaner who’s just turned into the corridor. “Jin,” he continues urgently, his eyes fixed on the cleaner as the man pushes his mop and bucket towards them. “You know where the laboratory is, don’t you, the one where they keep all the specimens and samples in?”

“It is in the basement beneath the library,” Jin replies, already moving along the corridor. “You wish for me to set it alight, yes?”

“Yes. Any advances they’ve made, I want destroyed,” Faith confirms, stepping in front of the cleaner and holding his hand up in a ‘stop’ gesture. “Once it’s done meet us at the front entrance. Be careful though and… hurry.”

“I’ll be there before you know it,” Jin murmurs over is shoulder as, with one last look at Faith, he starts to run silently towards the double doors.

Taking a deep breath, Faith kicks the cleaner’s bucket away from him and places a calming, reassuring hand on the man’s arm. “Hello,” he smiles, turning the blank faced man around to face the direction he’d just come from as, cradling a bundled up and very pale looking Chloé in his arms, Finlay steps back into the corridor. “Why I really hate to do this to you, I would like you to drive us to Paris. Do you think you can do that for me?”

Nodding, the man retrieves a set of car keys from the pocket of his coveralls and holds them towards Faith. “Of course,” he states, his voice devoid of both inflection and emotion. “If you’d just like to follow me, I’ll take you to my car.”

~*~

\- The Unfamiliar Taste of Freedom. Paris. - 

Immediately going on alert as the door behind him opens, Faith tenses and turns away from the small, dirty window he’d been staring out of. Upon seeing that the newcomer is Finlay, he visibly relaxes and returns his attention to the world outside of the sparsely furnished apartment.

“You should still be resting,” Finlay comments, walking through the shabby looking living area and depositing his bag of groceries on the bench separating the room from the tiny open plan kitchen. “God. You should see yourself, Faith. You look like some sick fuck has just ripped open your coffin and taken your corpse for a walk.”

“It’s a good job then that vanity is not one of my vices,” Faith replies quietly, resting his forehead against the glass as, with a resigned shrug, Finlay sets about getting himself a glass of water before wandering back into the living area. “I… I am fine, Finlay. You don’t have to worry about me.”

“Mmm… You look it too,” Finlay mutters, throwing himself down on the lime green, moth eaten velvet sofa and propping his feet up on the chipboard coffee table. “How’s your head? Has the migraine finally gone?”

“It is down to a manageable roar,” Faith murmurs, closing his eyes as though he can’t bear to see his reflection in the window. “Really, I am fine. I am not the one you should be wasting your concerns on.”

“There’s no change then?” Finlay queries, sighing as he glances across at one of the three closed doors that lead off the living room.

“No. There’s no change,” Faith responds, opening his eyes and, turning around, leaning his back up against the window. “The wounds are healing nicely, but I can’t get through to him. It’s almost as though he’s… not there.”

“It’s early days yet,” Finlay replies as he places his glass on the coffee table and stretches. “Don’t forget that this is only our third day out and that he *did* lose a fair amount of blood before that cleaner found him. Knowing how stubborn he is though, I’m sure he’ll be fine.”

“If he isn’t then it’s on my head,” Faith sighs, tilting his head back and staring at the water stained ceiling. “You say that I didn’t, but I failed him. I knew what was happening, what that bastard Schuldig was doing to him, and I didn’t do anything. This is my fault. He reached this point because of me and if he doesn’t make it I… I’m never going to forgive myself.”

“Bullshit!” Finlay exclaims vehemently as, jumping to his feet, he strides over to Faith and grabs him by the shoulders. “You’ve got to get over this, Faith. It’s not your fault and you can’t go on blaming yourself. I mean, Christ! Could you really have stopped it, huh? Given that that prick has had it in for Chloé from day one, it probably wouldn’t be too much of a stretch to say that the damage had already been done long before you’d even cottoned on to what he was up to. You can’t… Fuck! You can’t blame yourself for something that isn’t your fault.”

“I failed him,” Faith whispers, lowering his head and blinking back tears as he forces himself to look at Finlay. “I should have stood up to him when he refused my help and…”

“And, as much as I hate to say this, what does it matter now?” Finlay interrupts, releasing Faith’s shoulders only to wrap both arms around him and envelop him in a rough hug. “It’s over, Faith. Chloé’s still alive and we’re free. You may not have been able to stop Schuldig but you still managed to get us out and if that doesn’t count for something then… then I don’t know what does!”

Sniffing miserably, Faith slumps against Finlay and allows himself to be embraced for a minute or two before squirming away and blushing. “Where’s Jin?” he mutters, running a shaky hand through his hair. “I thought the pair of you were going to stick together.”

“He said he wanted to go for a walk around the park,” Finlay replies, shrugging as, giving Faith the room he needs to compose himself, he walks back to the sofa. “To be honest with you I suspect he’s probably still standing out the front of the computer shop that’s just up the street and drooling at the laptops in the window.” Pausing, he laughs as he sinks back down on the hideous green sofa. “While he’ll never say it, I think he’s already going into computer withdrawals and will become unbearable if he doesn’t get to run his fingers across a keyboard soon.”

“A laptop would… be a good thing to have,” Faith murmurs, frowning in concentration. “With a modem we would be able to monitor any search teams mounted by Rosenkrus and stay one step ahead of them.”

“Works for me,” Finlay mutters, picking his glass of water up and rolling it between his palms, “but how are we going to get our hands on one? Unless you’re willing to walk in there and trick the salesman into giving you one we’re pretty much stuffed until we somehow start earning some money.”

“I’m sorry if you do not agree with my methods,” Faith replies, still frowning as he glances across at Finlay, “but I will not, if I can at all help it, use my powers for material gain. I will also not be budged on my stance of keeping a list of all the people we have so far… borrowed… from as I am determined to one day repay them. I… *We* are not thieves.”

“Did I say anything about trying to change your stance?” Finlay retorts, looking somewhat put out that Faith could even think such a thing. “If you must know, I’m behind you one-hundred percent and I’m sure Jin is too. I was just saying it like it is though. We’re behind the eight ball here, Faith, and you know it.”

“It’s imperative. We must have access to a computer,” Faith announces, seemingly glossing right over Finlay’s response and nodding to himself. “I will take Jin to the store tomorrow and let him pick out the best one they have.”

“Huh?” Finlay grunts, nearly dropping his glass in shock. “Where the fuck did that come from?”

“With a computer we will have access to not only the Rosenkrus server but also their banking details,” Faith replies, a malicious grin stretching momentarily across his lips. “Assuming Jin’s skills are up to hacking it, which I’m sure they are, by the end of the week we’ll have access to all the money we’ll require and the computer store will have received payment for their laptop.”

“So… While it’s not okay to steal from the common man, it’s perfectly okay to steal from Rosenkrus?” Finlay queries, giving Faith an odd look. “Doesn’t that strike you as, I don’t know, a little hypocritical?”

“Not at all,” Faith replies flatly, glancing towards the front door as it opens and Jin steps into the apartment. “Compared to what they’ve stolen from us, money, in the grand scheme of things, is nothing…”

“When you put it *that* way,” Finlay mutters, craning his neck back to look at Jin before, a blinding grin lighting up his face, he bounds off the sofa and rushes over to stand next to his friend. “Look! A kitten!” he exclaims happily, gesturing at the tiny ball of black and white fluff cradled carefully in Jin’s hand. “Aw! Isn’t it cute! Where’d you get it?”

“She was in the gutter by the park,” Jin responds, tenderly stroking his finger down the kitten’s small head. “I… Faith. I’m sorry. I couldn’t just leave her there and didn’t know what else to do with her.”

“It’s okay,” Faith murmurs, walking over and smiling as he holds his hands out towards Jin. “I think I know what to do with her.”

Returning his smile, Jin nods and gently places the kitten in his waiting hands. “Of course. I should have thought of it myself.”

“Er… Anyone care to elaborate on what’s going on here?” Finlay complains, only just managing to run his hand over the kitten’s back before Faith turns around and starts to walk off. “Hey! Where are you going with her?”

“You really are dense at times,” Jin replies, shaking his head fondly as he grabs hold of Finlay’s shirt and starts to lead him into the kitchen. “Chloé… Faith hopes that the kitten might somehow be able to cheer Chloé up.”

Giving himself a mock smack to the head, Finlay rolls his eyes and grins. “You’re right. I really am dense at times.”

“Come on, let’s see what we can prepare to eat,” Jin responds, smiling at Finlay as he lets go of his shirt and begins to wash his hand in the sink. “With any luck there might be four of us enjoying whatever the culinary masterpiece is we manage to come up with tonight…”

“You’re not picking on my cheese sandwiches, are you?” Finlay laughs, unpacking his bag of groceries and spreading the contents over the bench. “If, by chance, you are, you can just bite me!”

“Please God, I pray that I am never so hungry as to be reduced to viewing the idea of biting Finlay favorably,” Jim murmurs blithely, putting his hands together as though in prayer as he wanders over to stand at the bench.

“Smart ass,” Finlay smirks, quickly elbowing Jin in the ribs as the bedroom door opens and Faith guides a pale and clearly unwell Chloé into the living room. His hair lank and his shadowed eyes unable to meet either Finlay or Jin’s, Chloé shuffles along next to Faith, his gaze fixed on the kitten he cradles to his chest.

Reaching the window, Faith cups Chloé’s gaunt cheek in his hand and gently lifts his head up so that he has no real choice other than to look out through the glass.

“See?” Faith states softly as, dinner momentarily forgotten about, Jin and Finlay gravitate over to join them. “That really is the Eiffel Tower you’re looking at and everything I’ve been telling you is true, we really are free.”

~*~

Lifting his sweat drenched hair away from his neck, Finlay surveys the flat expanse of the roof for a few seconds before grinning and setting off towards the edge at a sprint. Reaching it, he spins gracefully around and, with his fair fanning out behind him, bolts back to the small, rickety looking structure that covers the stairwell.

Clearly expecting the rooftop to be empty, he nearly doesn’t see the kitten as she steps through the doorway and, as his eyes widen and a muffled expletive falls out of his mouth, only just manages to avoid treading on her. His earlier grace abandoning him, he half lurches and half staggers over the kitten and, with a grunt, slams heavily against the wall.

“Shit!” Finlay exclaims, straightening himself up and glancing at the kitten. “Okay then, Hope,” he continues, picking the tiny black and white creature up and starting to walk around the small shed like building that protects the entrance to the roof. “Seeing as I know you’re too small to get up all those stairs by yourself, where is he? Chloé? I know you’re up here so, come on, come out.”

Shaking his head at the lack of response his greeting generates, Finlay is about to turn the corner when Chloé slips onto the roof and sneaks silently up behind him. “You’re not looking for me, are you?” he queries innocently, tapping Finlay lightly on the shoulder and laughing when his friend nearly jumps out of his skin. “Oh. I didn’t frighten you, did I?”

“Frighten me?” Finlay wheezes, putting on a performance of clutching at his heart with his free hand. “Oh hell, no. Of course not. I just live for having heart palpitations like this.” Pausing, he wags his finger at Chloé and smiles. “You’ve got a gift for sneaking around. You know that, don’t you?” he adds, frowning at Hope as she begins to squirm in his hand and quickly handing her over to Chloé. “I mean, how many times now is it that you’ve managed to creep up behind me?”

“I’ve lost count,” Chloé murmurs, stroking his finger under Hope’s chin and causing her to purr with satisfaction. “If I am good at it however it is solely because I have had so much practice. When I was small I… learnt very early on to stay out of father’s way, and then at Rosenkrus, although with far less success, I tried to do the same with Schuldig.”

“Your father didn’t hit you, did he?” Finlay mutters, his expression darkening. “If he did then I’m not too sure Faith should have let you have access to all your…”

“He didn’t hit me, no,” Chloé interrupts, shrugging and moving away from Finlay to stand at the edge of the rooftop. “Hitting me would have involved actually having to touch me and… that was not something he could bring himself to do. While love made him capable of overlooking mother’s… gifts… I was never anything more than a freak, an… embarrassment. He would not have mourned me.”

“But…” Stopping himself from continuing, Finlay walks over to join Chloé in staring out across the Parisian nightline. “I don’t suppose it matters now.”

“No, it doesn’t matter,” Chloé replies, placing Hope on the ground and turning to face Finlay. “I… I have a favor to ask, Finlay, and that’s that I would like for you to teach me how to fight. I also wish to become fit and believe that, if you are willing, of course, you would be able to assist me with achieving these goals.”

“You want to learn how to… fight?” Finlay echoes, quickly stifling a laugh and giving Chloé an amused look. “Good grief! Whatever for? If you’re worried about being hurt again, then don’t be. We’re here to protect you.”

“It is not just that,” Chloé murmurs, looking away from Finlay and sighing. “It’s not just myself I want to be able to protect. I want… I want to be able to look after others too. You say that you’re here to protect me, but that isn’t what I want. While I want to be with you, I don’t want anyone to feel as though they have to look after me and I want… would like to learn… to be able to stand on my own two feet. I would also like… perhaps one day… to be able to repay the kindness you have all shown me by helping those less fortunate.”

Nodding, Finlay reaches out and places his hand on Chloé’s shoulder. “Ignoring my physical advantage,” he states softly, “you’ve also got to remember that I’ve got eight years experience of Rosenkrus training under my belt and, while I’m at it, that I’ve never lost a fight. If I agreed to try to teach you I’m not sure I’d be able to hold back.”

“As the best of the best, I would not expect you to,” Chloé replies, picking Hope back up and, content that he’s achieved what he’d set out to, flashing Finlay a relieved smile. “That is why I asked you. I want to be as good as I possibly can. In exchange, perhaps I could attempt to teach you how to move around quietly and how to sneak up behind people?”

“While I don’t know who’s getting the harder end of the bargain here,” Finlay grins, shaking his head and rolling his eyes, “it’s a deal.”

~*~

Hugging his coat around him to protect himself from the cool night air, Chloé stands on the corner of the roof, his gaze fixed on the brilliantly lit up Eiffel Tower. While still pale, his cheekbones are no longer quite so pronounced and there’s a light that has been long missing in his eyes. Hope, who while having doubled in size has lost none of her kittenish playfulness, runs, chasing imaginary butterflies, around the rooftop behind him, the small bell on her red collar jingling softly.

When the door onto the roof opens silently and Faith steps out into the night, neither Chloé nor Hope pay him any attention and, instead of being miffed at this, he’s smiling as he walks over to join Chloé.

“Did you enjoy your birthday?” Faith queries gently, standing close enough to Chloé for their shoulders to be touching. “I feel as though I should apologize for the cake but Finlay was so adamant that he could make it that I simply couldn’t say no. If you’d like though I can always buy you a proper one tomorrow.”

“Barring being an aesthetic nightmare,” Chloé replies, glancing at Faith and giving a small shrug, “there was nothing wrong with the cake. In fact, courtesy of all the cream he used in an attempt to make up for its lack of sugar, it was actually rather nice. Thank you for the kind offer, but you don’t have to buy me another one as I’m perfectly happy with Finlay’s.”

“You had a nice day then?” Faith murmurs, turning to face Chloé and hesitantly brushing his fringe out of his eyes.

“I had a lovely day,” Chloé responds, watching Faith’s hand with evident caution but making no move to brush it away. “Again, thank you. You shouldn’t have gone to so much trouble though. I don’t want to put anyone out.”

“Put anyone out?” Faith repeats as, with a soft smile, he shakes his head. “You could never put anyone out, Chloé. You’re too… special…”

“Special?” His mind a little slow in computing the true meaning behind this somewhat cryptic response, Chloé gives Faith a puzzled look and is in the process of opening his mouth to continue when, without a word of warning, Faith leans forward and very tenderly presses their lips together.

His body going immediately rigid, Chloé jerks back from the kiss and, on unsteady legs, shifts a couple of meters away from Faith, his expression mortified. “F-Faith…”

“Oh! Oh God, Chloé!” Faith exclaims, his own expression looking as horrified as Chloé’s as he backs even further away. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have… I should have known… Shit! I’d never… force myself… on you like that and I hope you can forgive me.”

“It’s not that,” Chloé whispers, blushing as he glances down at Hope as she suddenly bolts over to position herself near his feet. “I… Faith… What I want to know though is… why? You’ve been nothing but kind to me from my first day at Rosenkrus and I… don’t understand why… You’re so powerful and so… good… and I’m nothing. Schuldig’s right. I *am* a failure and I don’t deserve all the attention you waste on me.”

“You’re not a failure and you’re certainly not nothing,” Faith responds firmly, advancing towards Chloé with his hand held out before him in a soothing, placating gesture. “I honestly thought you knew that, Chloé, that you’re as important as any of us are. According to Finlay you nearly even managed to beat him the other day and, regardless of it being through sheer hard work or simple determination, surely you’ve got to admit that that has to count for something.”

“So I can be trained,” Chloé mutters indifferently, staring at Faith’s outstretched hand but giving no sign of either wanting to grab it or move further away. “Big deal. That still doesn’t answer why it is you bother with me.”

Sighing, Faith smiles faintly and drops his hand. “From the second you got that book down for Jeffrey, I knew that you were different,” he murmurs. “You’re kind, Chloé, and you’re a survivor. You’re also the reason we’re here, in Paris, as opposed to still being trapped at Rosenkrus. Listen to me. It’s because of you that we found the courage to break free. If it hadn’t been for you we’d still be none the wiser to the hideous truth and we’d still be there, trapped.”

“You say that as though you honestly believe it,” Chloé replies, cocking his head to one side and looking at Faith with an expression of open curiosity written all over his face. “Yet… Faith, when you really think about it, all I did was give up. I mean, how can you call me a survivor when I tried to kill myself? If I were you I wouldn’t want anything to do with me. I’m like… I don’t know… a ball and chain wrapped around your ankle or something.”

“It’s a good job that you’re not me then,” Faith responds, taking another step closer to Chloé and looking relieved when the blond doesn’t immediately back further away from him. “If you must know, Chloé, and you’ve got to believe me when I say I’m not just saying this to make you feel better, I admire you. I really do. You say you don’t want to put anyone out yet, in order to protect Jeffrey and the other weaker, smaller boys, you allowed yourself to bear the brunt of Schuldig’s sadistic rage. In the end it might have got too much for you, but so what? You tried for over three years and nothing is ever going to change that. You’re still here though and already you’re looking ahead to how you can continue to look out for others. Don’t think you’re weak, please, as you’re not. I not only admire you now but I’ve always admired you, for your humanity, for your strength, for… just being you…”

“And I still think you’re mistaking me for someone else,” Chloé murmurs, shyly lowering his gaze and hesitantly, tentatively, shifting a little nearer to Faith. “I… I thank you, though. You… I know I’ve never said it, but you mean the world to me. If I’m the reason you found the courage to escape then you’re the reason I’m still alive. I owe you everything and it pains me that I have nothing to offer in return. Whatever you want, if I could give it to you I would.”

“There is only one thing I could ever want from you,” Faith replies, glancing warily at Hope as he reaches out and places both of his hands on Chloé’s shoulders, “and that’s to know that, from this point in your life onwards, everything you do you’ll do willingly and not because you think it’s what is expected of you or because you’re trying to put someone else first. Promise me, Chloé. Promise you’ll live your life accepting that it’s not selfish to give your own happiness priority.”

Looking up to meet Faith’s eyes, Chloé gives a gentle shake of his head and caresses Faith’s cheek with the palm of his hand. “I can’t promise that,” he whispers, stepping even closer as, instinctively, Faith’s hands slip from his shoulder to settle around his back. “But I can try. And… I can pray that I’m not making a mistake and do this…” Trailing off, Chloé leans forward and lightly brushes his lips across Faith’s. “Faith…”

“Shhh…” Smiling dazedly, Faith rests his forehead against Chloé’s and hugs him tightly. “Are you sure?” he murmurs thickly as, with a contented sigh, Chloé goes limp against him. “Chloé… You don’t have to…”

“I know I don’t,” Chloé replies, shifting his head so that he can kiss Faith’s cheek before closing his eyes and resting his head on his friend’s shoulder. “And that’s why I want to… So, yes… I’m very sure. I want you to kiss me.”

~*~

“I still think you’re only trying to save face,” Finlay mutters, pausing at the door to the apartment in order to ferret around in his pocket for the keys. “I mean, come on! You can’t seriously be telling me that it didn’t hurt,” he continues, glancing over his shoulder at Jin as he pulls the keys out and fumbles over unlocking the door.

“It didn’t hurt,” Jin states, lightly touching the small silver stud in the right side of his nose and shrugging. ‘There was perhaps a small pricking sensation, but that was it. I am thinking I would like to get either my lip or my eyebrow done next. What do you think I should get done first?”

“Why stagger them?” Finlay retorts, laughing as he finally succeeds in getting the door open and gesturing Jin into the apartment. “Maybe the guy would do you a good deal if you went in there and asked for everything to be pierced at once.”

“Then, perhaps, there would be pain,” Jin replies, giving Finlay a look that has more to do with long sufferance than it does amusement as he walks into the apartment. “Oh…”

“Oh, *what*?” Finlay queries, following Jin into the apartment and coming to a sudden stop as he only just avoids crashing into his friend’s back. “Oh… Oh shit…”

After sharing a worried look with him, Jin steps away from Finlay and walks through the living room to crouch down alongside the sofa. “Chloé?” he murmurs questioningly, placing his hand on Chloé’s arm. “What’s happened? Is Faith sick?”

“He says it’s just a migraine,” Chloé whispers, not bothering to glance at either Jin or Finlay and keeping his lowered gaze on Faith. Lying on his side and stretched along the length of the sofa with his head in Chloé’s lap, Faith, his pallor that of the truly unwell, is so deeply unconscious that it’s close to impossible to tell if he’s even still alive.

“*Another* migraine?” Finlay mutters, frowning as he walks over and sits down on the coffee table. “He sure has been getting a lot lately. Perhaps we’d, you know, better put some effort into finding a doctor we can trust in case it’s something serious.”

“He’s been having nightmares too,” Chloé states softly, his fingers gently combing through Faith’s hair as Hope sits, her front paws curled beneath her, alongside him on the arm of the sofa. “Horrible ones that, until now, he hasn’t been able to understand. Today though… while you were both out… what was left of his block disintegrated and… and it all came to him.”

“Er… Without wanting to sound too obvious here or anything, *what* came back to him?” Finlay replies as, gazing at Faith, his frown intensifies. “He knows that his parents are dead, that the scout Rosenkrus sent to retrieve him killed them in preference to attempting to negotiate for his… ah… services, so… Shit! What could be possibly worse than knowing that?”

“He has a brother,” Chloé murmurs, absent mindedly dropping his bombshell and causing both Finlay’s and Jin’s eyes to widen in shock. “A *younger* brother that he’s only just remembered.”

“So what?” Finlay responds, quickly masking his surprise with an air of indifference and shrugging. “You’ve got a younger brother too and you didn’t exactly lose the plot when you found out. Sorry if I sound uncaring or whatever, but, hell, surely there has to be more to it than that. Come on, Chloé, what is it that you’re not telling us?”

Looking up from Faith at last, Chloé glances across at Finlay and sighs. “My brother is still at home with his parents,” he replies, giving Finlay what could only be described as a cool look before returning his attention to Faith. “He is not at Rosenkrus.”

“Rosenkrus?” Jin repeats dully, lifting his hand away from Chloé’s arm and standing up. “Faith’s brother is… *there*?” he adds, shaking his head and going to lean his back up against the wall. “No… That can’t be right.”

“If you don’t wish to take my word for it,” Chloé responds, “go and get the computer from our bedroom and see the truth for yourself. We managed to locate Keegan before… well… before *this* happened and the details on the screen confirm everything. He’s four years younger and he’s in, just as he was while we were there, Section B.”

“Keegan…” Finlay muses, resting his hands flat on the coffee table and leaning back. “Keegan… Oh! I think I remember him. Scrawny little thing with enough attitude to start his own rap label and who, if he’s the one I’m thinking of, has the ability to assume the identity of others.”

“Is that him?” Jin queries, looking uncertain. “Big blue eyes and a blue undertone to his black hair? If so, I vaguely remember him too. He seemed, as Finlay said, arrogant and, I’m sorry, I just can’t see him as being related to Faith. They have, from the little I know of Keegan, nothing in common.”

“Whether they have anything in common or not, they are indeed brothers,” Chloé replies, his fingers still stroking Faith’s hair. “Matthew is completely normal yet I know for certain that he is my brother. I… I can even remember how much he used to be capable of annoying me with his constant demands for wanting to watch television and the way he always chewed with his mouth open. Now, although I’ve accepted that it’s unlikely we’ll ever meet again, I still love him and I take comfort from knowing that he’s safe.”

“Can Faith… remember him at all?” Finlay asks, sitting back up again and, leaning forward, lightly trailing his fingers along Faith’s thigh. “I know you say the whole having a brother deal has just come back to him, and that you’ve found proof on Rosenkrus’ administrative database, but can he actually *remember* him?”

“He can,” Chloé confirms quietly. “Although he was only nine, and Keegan five, when their parents were killed and they were taken back to Rosenkrus, he says that he can remember the pair of them feeding pigeons in the park with their mother and how Keegan used to be so afraid of the dark that he needed not only a night light but also Faith to be in his room with him in order to be able to sleep. Like my memories, they are too… real… to be anything other than genuine.”

“But… Shit! I don’t get it,” Finlay complains, retracting his hand and staring at Faith as though he’d like nothing more than for his friend to suddenly wake up and give him all the answers he needs. “Stopping the pills allowed Faith’s powers to return, I get that. I also get that with the return of his powers came the ability to see through Rosenkrus’ dirty little games. Now, what I don’t get however is why it’s taken so freakin’ long for all the details of his own life to fall into place. Let’s face it, when he took our blocks down everything came flooding back pretty much in a matter of seconds.”

“You answered your own question there, Finlay,” Jin replies, flinching as he makes the mistake of lightly touching his new nose ring. “While Faith was able to take our memory blocks down, his, because none of us possess his power, had to come down on its own accord. I also suspect that his may have been, for the want of a better description, far… *sturdier*… than ours because of how powerful Rosenkrus knew him to be.”

“His had to fade over time,” Chloé whispers, nodding as he glances across at Jin. “It was far more deeply entrenched than ours because, to Rosenkrus, he was far more important than we were.”

“Some people just get all the luck,” Finlay mutters, his expression serious as he stands up and looks across the room to Jin. “Okay though, so we know Faith’s memory has fully returned and that his younger brother is still an unwilling guest of our old chums at Rosenkrus. What I now what to know is what are we going to do about it? Or, perhaps I should rephrase that to, *is* there anything we can do about it?”

His fingers stilling in Faith’s hair, Chloé turns to face Finlay, his lips set in a thin line of determination. “There is only one thing we can do,” he states matter-of-factly, “and that’s go back to Rosenkrus and get him out. There is no other choice.”

~*~

\- A Momentary Return to Hell. Rosenkrus. -

Grunting in both pain and surprise, the uniformed guard drops his flashlight and slumps, unconscious, to the floor.

“I bet you didn’t see that coming, did you, asshole,” Finlay sneers, standing above the guard’s body and staring down at him as though he alone was the embodiment of everything that’s wrong and evil in the world. Lifting his foot in preparation of kicking the fallen guard in the ribs, Finlay’s expression changes to one of shock as, suddenly, the guard slides along the corridor as though he was being pulled on invisible wires.

“Finlay!” Faith exclaims, walking around the corner and grabbing hold of Finlay’s blazer in order to pull him back. “What did I tell you about not, if it can be at all helped, hurting anyone? If you’d left him to me I could have taken care of him without having to resort to violence.”

“And what did I tell you about letting us help and not feeling as though you’ve got to do all of this on your own, huh?” Finlay mutters, shrugging off Faith’s grip and spinning around to face him. “You’ve got us in here, and you’re probably going to be the one that will have to get us out, but now that we’re here you need to let us help. Goddamn it, Faith! If you keep this up your freakin’ brain is going to explode and then you’re going to be of no use to anyone.”

Scowling, Faith stands up to his full height and gives Finlay an annoyed look. “My brain is a long way off exploding and you need…”

“I think you’re both right,” Chloé interrupts, walking, with Jin at his side, into the corridor. Like Finlay and Faith, they’re both wearing the Rosenkrus school uniform in order to blend in and neither look comfortable in it. “Finlay, Faith’s right in that we’re not here to hurt people. And, Faith, Finlay’s right in that you need to let us do what we can to help. If we deviate now from the plan we could well be asking for trouble.”

Nodding his agreement, Jin closes his hand around Finlay’s elbow and starts to lead him further down the corridor. “Listen to Chloé,” he murmurs. “Now is not the time for a change of plans.”

“Anyone would think I killed the bastard, the way you lot are carrying on,” Finlay mutters, shrugging. “But, yeah, whatever. I’ll try not to hit anyone else. Well… Not unless he tries to hit me or one of you first. How’s that?”

“Perfect,” Chloé replies, glancing nervously over his shoulder as, getting in step with Faith, they follow their friends down the darkened, moon lit corridor. “Faith? Are you okay with that?”

“How could I not be?” Faith replies, smiling as he turns to look at Chloé. “When, incidentally, did you happen to become so wise?”

Blushing at Faith’s praise, Chloé lowers his gaze to the floor and shrugs. “I entertained myself with delusions of grandeur while you were lecturing me not to come,” he murmurs, failing dismally in his attempt to sound blasé. “I know you meant well, but… but I’d made my mind up and there wasn’t anything you could have said that would have changed it.”

“I still wish…” Stopping himself, Faith reaches out a hand and lightly ruffles Chloé’s hair. “Anyone ever told you that you’re stubborn?”

“I had to face my fears sometime,” Chloé responds, his body tensing as, looking up, he sees that Finlay and Jin have come to a stop in front of a closed door and are making ‘hurry up’ gestures at them. “Well… Looks like we are here,” he adds, glancing once again over his shoulder. “Section B’s dormitory.”

“It will be over before you know it,” Faith states, giving Chloé a quick hug and planting a light kiss on his forehead. “You’ll see. We’ll get Keegan and we’ll be back in Paris before dawn.”

“Of course we will,” Chloé whispers, giving Faith a gentle push in the direction of the door. “Now, come on, get a move on. We don’t want the Dean to wake up to the fact we’re creeping around.”

Taking matters into his own hands, Finlay nods and, brushing past Faith, carefully opens the door. “You can say that again,” he mutters under his breath, gesturing Faith into the dorm. “Okay. Quick. Chop, chop! Fan out and find Keegan so we can get the fuck out of here.”

“Like we need telling twice,” Jin murmurs drily, glancing at Chloé as he walks towards the doorway. “You still okay to keep watch?”

“I’m fine,” Chloé confirms, positioning himself with his back to the door and folding his arms across his chest as Jin joins the others in their search for Keegan. “Just… hurry.”

Clearly anxious, Chloé’s demeanor of bravado slips a little once he’s alone and he hugs himself as his gaze continuously flits up and down the length of the corridor. When, after not much more than a minute has passed, Jin walks back out of the room and places his hand on his shoulder, he nearly jumps out of his skin and only just manages to stifle a scream. “Jin! I…”

“We’ve got him,” Jin states softly, squeezing Chloé’s shoulder and walking past him to stand in the middle of the corridor. “Finlay and Faith are bringing him out now.” Pausing, he frowns. “Things are a little… odd… however. Keegan claims to know that Faith is his brother which, if it is true, implies that his memory block has already been tampered with.”

“But who would do…” Trailing off, Chloé turns away from Jin and stares with horror as, quite literally out of nowhere, Schuldig advances down the corridor towards them. “Jin…”

His own eyes widening in dismay as he notices Schuldig, Jin makes to grab Chloé’s arm but he’s too slow, his fingers only just brushing against his blazer as, suddenly, the blond takes off at run towards Schuldig.

“Chloé!”

“Don’t worry about me!” Chloé shouts, darting past a truly astonished looking Schuldig and sprinting for the corner. “Just get the others out of here!”

Giving Jin a speculative look, Schuldig shrugs airily, gives a mock bow, and starts to run after Chloé. “Hey, Rosebud! I always knew you were fucking crazy,” he laughs, his eyes lighting up with the thrill of the chase. “This though, this takes the fucking cake. Did the freedom go to your head or something?”

“I just wanted to see you run,” Chloé retorts breathlessly, reaching a junction of corridors and stairwells well ahead of Schuldig and, glancing around him, hesitating over where to turn. Choosing the corridor to his left, he slips down it and presses himself hard against a wall.

“Oh, Rosebud!” Schuldig calls out in a sing-song voice, slowing down as he comes up to the junction. “Come out, come out, where ever you are.”

Looking as though he’s holding his breath, Chloé, his back still pressed against the wall, starts to inch his way further down the corridor. He stops though when a dull thudding sound, that could only represent that of a body falling to the ground, reverberates through the otherwise silent building and hesitantly makes his way back to the junction. Poking his head around the corner, he looks down at the sprawled and very much out of it form of Schuldig for a moment before lifting his head up and gazing, with evident surprise, at Free.

Displaying no surprise whatsoever at either finding Chloé back roaming the corridors of Rosenkrus or at having knocked out Schuldig, Free looks at Chloé and calmly extends his hand towards him. “I knew that you would come,” he comments as, stepping over Schuldig’s body with a look of distaste on his face, Chloé tentatively places his hand in his, “and I ask that I be allowed to come with you as far as the other side of the fence. That, however, is all that I ask.”

“Uh…” His mind most likely filled with unwanted memories of what the young man lying at his feet had put him through, Chloé stares blankly at Free for a couple of seconds before nodding. “Of course,” he smiles. “I do not think that would be a problem at all.”

“Thank God!” Finlay exclaims, the volume of his voice at odds with how silently he’s running down the corridor. “What was going through your fool head, huh?” he continues, coming to an abrupt stop in front of Chloé and wagging his finger at him. “You nearly gave all of us a heart attack running at Schuldig like that.”

“It was something I had to do,” Chloé murmurs simply, shrugging as he glances at Free. “Finlay, you remember Free, don’t you? He wishes to come with us. I do not think that should be a problem, do you?”

Looking at Free as though he hadn’t even noticed him standing next to Chloé, Finlay grins and, bowing grandly, gestures up the corridor to where Jin, Faith, and a younger, sleepy looking teenager that could only be Keegan are waiting for them. “Shit no,” he retorts, “the more we can piss off Rosenkrus the better, I say.”

~*~

\- The Beginning Of An End. Paris. -

Sitting up as Faith slips quietly out of the bedroom, Chloé gropes sleepily for the lamp on the bedside table and fumbles over switching it on. Yawning as the dull light chases away the darkness and bathes the room in a golden glow, he throws back the bedding and climbs out of bed. Hope, who’s curled at the foot of the mattress, wakes up and watches him for a moment through slitted eyes before burying her nose under her paw and going back to sleep.

Walking over to the scuffed yet functional dresser, he picks up a packet of cigarettes and a silver lighter and carries them over to the window. Opening it a fraction to let the smoke out, Chloé lights a cigarette and has barely brought it to his lips when the sound of raised voices coming from the next room begin to filter in through the thin walls.

“Faith!”

“Shhh… It’s okay, Keegan. I’m here.”

“I… I had that dream again, the one where you leave me.”

“As I’ve told you before, I’m not going to leave you, not ever again. Now… Come on. Lie back down and go to sleep. You’re safe now and you don’t have anything to worry about.”

“I… Faith! I can’t help but worry. You… You abandoned me once for Rosebud and I’m terrified that you’ll do it again.”

Flinching at hearing the name Schuldig coined for him being so carelessly bandied about, Chloé leans his back up against the wall and closes his eyes.

“I know you’re upset at Chloé, Keegan, but, and I know I’ve told you this a number of times before, I’d really appreciate it if you didn’t call him Rosebud. He hasn’t, contrary to what Schuldig may have told you, done anything to hurt you and he’s not a threat to you. Trust me. Chloé would never do anything to hurt you.”

“See? There you go again! You’re always standing up for him. Honestly. You should hear yourself sometime. Can’t he stand up for himself? Is he that pathetic that…”

“Keegan! I’m sorry that I left you at Rosenkrus to suffer but, listen to me, none of it is Chloé’s fault. Everything Schuldig told you about him is a lie. He didn’t manipulate me and he never tried to keep me from you. As I keep telling you, it was his idea to go back to Rosenkrus for you and…”

“You’re only saying that because you love him more than me! It’s his fault! Everything is his fault! Schu… Schuldig told me. He also said that you’re so blinded by him that you’d lie to me, that…”

“Keegan… Please. You need to calm down and get some sleep. I… I’m sorry. I don’t know what I can say to you that I haven’t already said. You’re my brother and I love you. If there was anything, *anything* at all that I could do to turn back the clock in order to have taken you with us when we escaped, I’d do it. Kee… You’re my family and… really… we’re all each other has. I promise you that I’ll never leave you again, that I’ll always be there for you.”

“You… You won’t leave me for Rose… Chloé? You *promise* that you won’t choose him over me?”

“I promise that I’ll never leave you for anyone. Now, lie back down and go to sleep. Things might seem new and scary to you at the moment, Keegan, but they’ll get better. You’re free now. Never forget that. You’re free and I’m here to look after you.”

“Thank you, Faith… I… I really am lucky to have you for a brother and I don’t know what I’d do without you…”

“Shhh… Go back to sleep.”

“Stay with me?”

“Yes. I’ll stay with you until you’re asleep. Now, close your eyes and settle back down. I’m here and you’re safe.”

“Mmm… ‘Night, Faith.”

“Goodnight, Keegan.”

Silence once again descending on the apartment, Chloé opens his eyes and frowns at the forgotten cigarette burning dangerously close to the filter and held limply in his fingers. Quickly stubbing it out in the cut glass ashtray on the windowsill, he lights another and smokes it hungrily.

His expression one of worry and his light blue eyes shadowed, Chloé is on his fifth successive cigarette when the bedroom door is carefully opened and Faith steps back into the room. Wincing as he notices Chloé standing by the window, Faith tiredly rubs his hands over his face and walks over to join his lover.

“You heard…” Shaking his head, Faith trails off and grimaces. “I’m sorry you had to hear that,” he murmurs, gently plucking the cigarette from Chloé’s hand and grinding it out in the ashtray. “I… Chloé… I’m so sorry. I don’t know what to say to you or what I can do to make Keegan see the truth. Schuldig’s twisted everything in his head and now…”

“Shhh…” Chloé whispers soothingly, cutting Faith off and, wrapping his arms around him, drawing their bodies together. “You don’t have to say anything,” he continues, softly kissing Faith’s forehead and hugging him closer as he relaxes into the embrace. “So, shhh… It’s okay. You’ll see. Everything’s going to be okay. All that matters now is that your brother is safe, that the pair of you are together again…”

~*~

“Chloé…” His expression stricken, Faith places a pale hand on the suitcase Chloé’s holding and tries to pull it away from him. “Please,” he murmurs pleadingly, his violet eyes bright with unshed tears as Chloé shakes his head and tightens his grip on the suitcase. “You don’t have to do this! You don’t… There has to be another way…”

“There is no other way,” Chloé replies quietly, tugging his case away from Faith and, placing it on the floor, going over to sit on the edge of the bed. “You know it as well as I do, Faith. I have to go.”

“No!” Faith exclaims, rushing over to kneel, as though in supplication, by Chloé’s legs. “Just give him a little longer. He’ll come around, I’m sure of it. He… He’s still only fifteen and…”

“And he hates me,” Chloé finishes gently, placing a trembling hand on Faith’s shoulder. “Keegan hates me, Faith, and there’s nothing you or anyone else can do about it. Schuldig having well and truly done a number on him, he’s never going to change his opinion either and, what’s more, I can neither hold it against him nor say I’d behave any differently if the tables were turned and it was I who was in his position. In his mind he has good reason to hate me and I don’t want to hamper his recovery or be cause of concern for him.”

“But…” Looking up at Chloé imploringly, Faith closes a hand tightly around his knee and shakes his head. “Chloé… You don’t have to do this. I’ll have another word to him. I… I know! We’ll go away for a couple of weeks and leave him with Jin and Finlay. How does that sound?”

“It’s a lovely idea,” Chloé whispers, removing his hand from Faith’s shoulder only to place it over the one he’s got resting on his knee, “and I’d love to, but we can’t. If we were to do that Keegan’s fears would be realized and I know you don’t want that.” Pausing, he gives Faith’s hand a squeeze before standing up and retrieving his coat from the peg on the back of the door. “I love you, Faith, and it’s because I love you that I’m doing this. Blood is thicker than water and you need to concentrate on undoing all the damage done to Keegan while he was in Rosenkrus. I’ll be fine. Jin’s set me up with all the papers and bank accounts I’ll need and I promise that I’ll stay in contact. Besides, you know I’ve always wanted to travel, to see if I can put all these languages I know to good use.”

Shifting from the floor to the bed, Faith stares at Chloé, his expression a combination of resignation and dismay. “What about the plans we’d been making?” he murmurs softly. “You were so keen on the idea of helping free others from Rosenkrus that I thought you’d have wanted to be a part of our… team…”

“Of course I’m keen on the idea,” Chloé replies, glancing at his watch before shrugging into his coat. “In fact, I think it’s an excellent idea and, if I could, I’d love to be a part of it. I think what I’m doing, however, is more important. You need to get to know your brother and you can’t do that while I’m around. Perhaps in time, when Keegan’s matured, I can come back and join the team then. I… I know it’s something that I would like.”

“I thought I once told you that the only person you need to live for is yourself,” Faith sighs, standing up and placing his hand in his pocket. “Chloé… Again. You don’t have to do this. I love my brother but I love you too and I don’t want to lose you.”

Walking back over to the bed in order to retrieve his small suitcase, Chloé smiles wanly and kisses Faith on the cheek. “You’re not losing me,” he responds, blinking back tears as his fingers curl around the handle on the suitcase, “and I’ll be back. When I’m tired of traveling or of my own company and my nerves fail me, I’ll come back. We’re… a part of each other, Faith, and nothing’s ever going to change that. Not Keegan, not separation, not anything. Now, if I want to say goodbye to Finlay and Jin and still catch my train, I have to get going.”

“Rosary,” Faith whispers, pulling something out of his pocket that he keeps hidden in his closed fist. “The name of our team, it… it’s Rosary,” he continues haltingly, blinking back tears as he holds his hand out towards Chloé. “Jin and Finlay came up with the name… and I had this made for you to commemorate it. I… I’d hoped you’d find relevance in it as a member of Rosary, but now… Well, maybe when you look at it you’ll remember your friends and how much we all mean to each other…”

Uncurling his fingers, Faith places the delicate strand of rosary beads made out of rose quartz in Chloé’s hand and, with what looks be an extreme effort on his part, forces himself to look up to meet Chloé’s anguished gaze. “Take this, Chloé, and have… faith,” he murmurs, blushing slightly. “If you need me, I’ll be there for you. You have my word.”

~*~

A Chance Encounter / A Fortune Realized. Milan, Italy. Seven Months Later. - 

His eyes wide and panicked looking, a small blond boy darts between the crowd of shoppers milling along the paved and shop lined mall. Despite his age and obvious fear, no one pays him any attention. A few give a haughty sniff of disapproval as the three men dressed in biker leathers that are chasing him barge their way past, upsetting their bags of shopping or making the women wobble on their stiletto heels, but other than that they carry on about their business as though nothing out of the ordinary is happening at all.

“Come back here ya fuckin’ little brat!” one of the men, a particularly nasty looking individual with a swastika tattooed on his left cheek, yells, brandishing his fist. “I don’t care how fuckin’ small ya are! Ya knocked over our bikes and now ya gotta pay!”

“Yeah. Pay,” another one of the men, this one wearing a leather jacket with the image of a salivating Doberman and the words ‘The Bloods’ emblazoned on the back, grunts, sweat dripping off his fleshy face. “Fuckin’ brat!”

Shaking his head, the boy risks a glance over his shoulder and, not looking where he’s going, only just manages to avoid colliding with a table and chairs set up out the front of a café. Righting himself just in time, he locks eyes with the blond man sitting at the table for a split second before continuing on his way.

“I’m sorry!” the boy calls back over his shoulder as he runs. “It was an accident!”

“That’s what he said to us too,” the man with the offensive facial tattoo snorts, clapping the blond on the shoulder as he lumbers after the boy. “Brat!”

“Fuckin’ brat,” the man wearing the charmingly decorated leather jacket echoes, clipping the table with his thigh as he passes and causing the blond’s cup of tea to spill all over the letter he’d been writing. “Don’t worry, mate, we’ll make him pay for that too.”

Sighing, Chloé straightens his cup and glances at his ruined letter for a moment before folding it into a small square and standing up. Placing some money under the cup, he slips the letter into his pocket and begins, his pace brisk, to follow the last biker into the small alley the boy had disappeared down.

Turning into the alley, he finds the three bikers standing over the boy as he cowers under a rickety looking fire escape at the alley’s dead end and sighs again.

“Excuse me,” Chloé calls out politely, his eyes hardening as Mr Swastika reaches out and grabs the boy by the lapels of his tweed jacket, lifting him off the ground to dangle helplessly in the air. “Perhaps I’m wrong, but does this really seem fair to you?” he continues lightly, walking down the alley and giving the bikers a cool, almost dismissive look. “I mean, picking on a small boy. How positively… manly.”

“Who fuckin’ asked you, fag?” the third biker, his considerable paunch only just contained within the faded confines of his once-black Harley Davidson t-shirt, sneers, laughing coldly as he looks Chloé up and down. “Besides, whatcha gonna do about it, huh? Take us on?”

Giving a small ‘so be it’ shrug, Chloé, his reflexes lightening fast, closes his hand around the fat biker’s wrist and, twisting his arm around his back, shoves him face first up against the brick wall. “If it is what it takes for you to leave the boy alone,” Chloé murmurs, as the man grunts and struggles, “then, yes, I will take you all on.”

“You and what fuckin’ army?” Mr Swastika snorts, dropping the boy to the ground and, cracking his knuckles, advancing towards Chloé.

Abruptly pulling the still struggling and now quite literally frothing at the mouth with fury biker away from the wall, Chloé shoves him at Mr Swastika and, shaking his head, makes ‘tsking’ sounds under his breath as they both tumble to the ground. “One does not have to be either big, ugly, or suffer from pungent body odor in order to be able to fight,” he comments, spinning around and landing a fluid kick to the chest of the only biker remaining standing as he came rushing up behind him. “My apologies if you were not aware of this.”

“Fuckin’… fag…” the biker wheezes, clutching his chest and slumping heavily to his knees. “Am… so… gonna… get… you…”

“Is that before or after the rest of your feral posse arrive to see you lying here groaning and a, I quote, fag standing above you?” Chloé queries, keeping a watchful eye on the men as he walks over to the boy and extends his hand towards him. “Come along. I do not believe these… men… will cause you any more trouble.”

Grabbing his hand, the boy stares up at Chloé through awestruck light green eyes and smiles shyly. “I am sorry for causing you trouble,” he murmurs contritely, his eyes still fixed on Chloé as they begin to walk out of the alley. “It was not my intention to cause anyone trouble and I do so hope that there is something I can do for you by way of thanks.”

“You could start by telling me your name,” Chloé replies, crouching down as they reach the end of the alley and smiling gently at the boy. “My name is Chloé and, as I am sure you must be lost, I’d be happy to help you find your parents.”

“My parents are both dead,” the boy whispers, his expression darkening for a moment before quickly being replaced by a happy grin. “I am Michel,” he continues brightly, “and I am very pleased to make your acquaintance, Chloé.”

“And I am pleased to make yours too,” Chloé responds, standing up and guiding Michel back in the direction of the café. “Now, surely someone must be missing you and…”

“Nana’s going to be so angry with me!” Michel exclaims, looking anxiously along the mall as his small hand closes even tighter around Chloé’s. “And KR! They told me not to go, that I had to stay in the motel, but I wanted to see where they were all going and when Side A left I followed them, but… but they were too fast for me and… and I got lost, and… I didn’t mean to knock the men’s bikes down! Honest! And… Oh, Chloé! I’m sorry to be a nuisance but I don’t know where I am and… and I’m scared that I won’t be able to find my way back to the motel…”

“Do you remember the name of the motel you’re staying in?” Chloé asks, his expression one of confusion as he attempts to make sense of everything that had just fallen out of Michel’s mouth. “If so…”

“You! Unhand that boy immediately!” a commanding sounding voice suddenly barks as a solemn faced man wearing a black leather trench coat runs up and closes his hand proprietarily around Michel’s shoulder. “Let him go now and I will not hurt you.”

Letting go of Chloé’s hand only to grab at the newcomer’s arm, Michel shakes his head anxiously as Chloé stares warily at the man, his body stance defensive. “No, no! Please, listen to me,” Michel pleads, tugging on the man’s arm. “Chloé is my friend. Please don’t hurt him. He has done nothing wrong and did in fact save me.”

“Is that right, Michel?” a regal looking woman with black hair pulled back into a neat bun and wearing a clearly expensive and elegant two piece black skirt suit queries softly, placing a leather gloved hand in warning on the man’s shoulder. “What have I told you before about not doing what you’re told?” she continues with a sigh, a look of relief washing over her face as she ruffles Michel’s mop of blond hair. “You had everyone running around like headless chickens. Free, in particular, was most concerned that you may have come to some harm.”

“Free?” Chloé murmurs hesitantly, his surprise evident as he looks at the woman. “I… I’m sorry. It’s just that I used to know someone with that name.”

Looking at him speculatively, the woman holds her right hand out towards Chloé and waits for him to take it. “My name is Nana Mihirogi,” she states, “and I think it would perhaps be a good idea for all of us to go back to the motel and take tea together. Chloé? It is, after all, the least we can do by way of thanking you for saving Michel. Besides, not only that but there is also someone back at the motel who I think would like to see you.”

~*~

~ A New Beginning. Terminal Three, Heathrow Airport, England. Six Years Ago. -

His small face alight with excitement, Michel stands next to Mihirogi, his eyes quickly scanning the flood of people as they walk through the double doors into the arrivals lounge. When he spots who it is he’s waiting for, he glances up at Mihirogi for approval before weaving his way through the crowd of travelers and grabbing Chloé in as tight a bear hug as his small arms can manage.

“Chloé!” Michel beams as, with a look of gentle bemusement on his face, Chloé places his hand luggage on the carpet and crouches down to the return the hug. “I am so glad that you decided to join with us!”

And, just like that, there it ends, a new beginning both found and realized.

For a second, as the image on screen slowly dissolves to black, I remain sitting in my seat. Stunned. Entranced. Sick to my stomach. Then, as I’m beginning to consider getting up and leaving, the theatre, just like the movie itself only a moment or two ago, starts to dissolve. When it’s finished, when my temporary reality has vanished in its entirety, I find myself awake in the here and now, Chloé still curled around me and with my hand still resting on the bare skin of his waist.

Unlike when I went to sleep though, Yohji is also in the room. Without even having to open my eyes, I know this because I can smell him. Alcohol, nicotine and sweat mingle with the distinct yet always unique odor that comes part and parcel with having been in close proximity to too many different perfumes and aftershaves. I call it Eau de Nightlife and it’s a scent that fleetingly transports me back to -- a different world, a different life -- the Koneko and that, no matter who I smell it on, I always associate with Yohji. It’s the scent of life and youth, of good, uncomplicated times spent in the futile pursuit of pleasure.

It’s also a scent, albeit a stale and somewhat offensive one, that I’m always happy to smell.

Opening my eyes, I turn my head on the pillow and follow the trail of the aroma to where Yohji is standing halfway between the bed and chest-of-drawers, a clean t-shirt clutched in his hands. To his credit he’s not staring at me like I’m some sort of particularly rare and exotic specimen and is just, by the looks of it, standing there lost in thought. Looking at his straight backed posture, I deduce that he’s not, as I half expected him to be, drunk and, wanting to get his attention, softly say his name.

Jerking his head around, Yohji opens his mouth to say something but settles instead for letting the classic apologetic expression that immediately settles over his face do the talking for him.

“You didn’t wake me,” I whisper, carefully removing my hand from under Chloé’s top and gesturing Yohji over, “so stop looking so sorry and miserable.”

“I…” Waving the t-shirt at me, Yohji sighs quietly and walks over to crouch down along side the bed. “I was just getting a fresh t-shirt to wear to bed,” he murmurs, shrugging. “If I did wake you, I’m sorry. I thought I was being quiet but obviously I wasn’t.”

“You didn’t wake me,” I repeat, reaching out and grabbing his free hand in mine. “Besides, the movie had finished anyway.”

“Movie?” Yohji queries, his eyes never leaving mine as, instinctively, his fingers fold around my hand, squeezing it tightly. “No. On second thoughts, forget it. I’m sure I don’t want to know.”

“It depends on what you’ve already learned about Rosary,” I murmur, glancing behind me and confirming that Chloé is still fast asleep. “Faith… he somehow allowed me to dream their story, Chloé’s too, and…”

“And what a story it is too,” Yohji finishes for me, his eyes widening slightly as he shakes his head to indicate either his disbelief or his wonderment. “Finlay told me some of the, and I don’t know if this is really the right word to use here, *highlights* of their history while we were out and about. My God. And we thought *we* had reason to feel hard done by…”

Not wanting to disrupt Chloé any more than I absolutely have to, I pull my hand away from Yohji’s and gingerly sit up. “Did he happen to mention that Chloé is actually a witch?” I whisper, the question bypassing my ‘tread with caution and don’t speak just for the sheer hell of it’ chip and slipping carelessly out of my mouth. “Ah… That’s in… um… the traditional sense, of course,” I add hurriedly. “Um… You know what I mean, don’t you?”

Raising an eyebrow, Yohji stands up and peers down at Chloé with an expression that’s a mix of both amusement and bemusement on his face. I don’t even have to hear him say it to know that he’s got images of broomsticks, cauldrons and hairy facial warts flitting through his head and wish that I’d had enough brains to think before blithely opening my mouth. It’s just that, well, putting aside everything that’s happened and the fact I’ve got Chloé using whatever parts of my body he can reach as a sort of teddy-bear, this is the most… *Yohji-like*… I’ve seen Yohji in days and I want to make the most of it. And if that necessitates simply chatting then so be it. If we can talk without apologizing or pointing the meaningless finger of blame then it has to be seen as a start -- a good one -- in the right direction.

“Whatever magic ingredient it is that they put in your cough medicine, Aya, it’s clearly an hallucinogen of some sort,” Yohji smirks at last, carefully sitting down on the edge of the bed and giving my knee a borderline condescending pat. “I mean, a *witch*? Come off it. If you’d said vampire I would have accepted it like a shot, but a witch? Sorry, my love, but I think you’ve lost it.”

“You’ve got your mind fixated on stereotypical Halloween witches and wouldn’t know a real witch if he or she came up and branded a pentagram on your forehead” I mutter, giving him a sour look. “Believe me or don’t, I don’t really care. I’m telling you though that Chloé’s from a family of witches. That’s why he can control the cats and owls and it’s also why he came to the attention of Rosenkrus. It’s in his blood. I saw it all in my dream.”

Glancing over at Chloé and surprising me slightly by reaching out and brushing his finger lightly across his cheek, Yohji nods slowly and returns his attention to me. “Chloé’s cross, the one Schuldig was wearing and that Finlay rescued,” he murmurs, “he told me at the castle that its original owner was burnt at the stake during the Inquisition. I thought he was just kidding…”

“Trust me, having seen what happened to the original owner, he wasn’t kidding,” I reply, pulling a face as a snippet of the dream’s gory beginning flashes into my head. “Just… Hell. People were just so barbaric back then that it’s a wonder the human race was even able to make it this far.”

“And yet again I don’t think it’s something I really need to know about,” Yohji responds, running his fingers through his hair and yawning broadly. “Come to think of it though, yeah, I can accept that Chloé has witch’s blood in him. In fact, taking into consideration the weird and wonderful powers of our new friends, it doesn’t really surprise me at all. One thing’s for sure though, *fuck* are we lucky to have them on our side.”

“Tell me about it,” I murmur, following Yohji’s lead and yawning. A quick glance at the clock on the bedside table tells me that it hasn’t yet turned four in the morning and that, really, some more sleep would probably be in order. “On second thoughts, tell me about it when it’s daylight.”

“Oh shit, Aya, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to keep you up,” Yohji mutters, standing up and looking annoyed with himself. “I just… Well, I suppose I was just enjoying how, you know, normal our conversation was and how much I’d missed just being with you. But, again, I apologize and will be on my way now.”

“No, don’t go,” I reply, shaking my head and reaching for Yohji. “Please, stay… I want you to stay.”

“You want me to sleep on the floor?” Yohji queries hesitantly, glancing down at the carpet and no doubt mentally calculating how cold and hard it would be to sleep on. “I… Hell. Okay. If it’s what you want I’d be delighted to risk putting my back out for you.”

“No, not on the floor,” I whisper, praying that I’m not about to make a huge, inexcusable mistake. “I… In bed. I want you to share the bed. Yohji… This week has just been a total nightmare and… and I want you near me, I want to know that everything’s okay between us.”

“What about Chloé?” Yohji murmurs, giving me a surprised look. “I don’t really think waking him up and kicking him out would be the nicest thing to do, do you?”

“Not wake him up and kick him out, no,” I reply, the incredibly spur of the moment idea making, God knows how, mind you, more and more sense to me by the second. “More very gently push him further over his side of the bed so you’ll fit next to me.”

“And you honestly think he’ll be okay with this?” Yohji responds, frowning in what could either be doubt or concentration. “I want to stay with you, Aya, but not if there’s any chance it might disturb or upset Chloé. Finlay kinda let it slip what Schuldig used to like doing to him and the last thing I want to do, especially after what he’s been through today, is to risk further upsetting him.”

“You think I’d even ask if I thought there was any chance of that happening?” I query softly, leaning forward and trailing my fingers down Yohji’s arm. “If it helps make up your mind though, I’m confident that he won’t have a problem with it. I’ll… ah… be in the middle anyway and, besides, as I’m sure you already know, he both likes and trusts you.” Pausing, it suddenly dawns on me that concern for Chloé may not be the only thing stopping Yohji from accepting my offer and mentally give myself a smack over the knuckles for having been -- so caught up in my own needs -- dense.

“If you’d rather not,” I continue, smiling at Yohji in an attempt to tell him that I understand, that I’m not actually as stupid as I’m pretending to be, “then that’s fine too. In fact, I’d understand perfectly if the thought has made you uncomfortable. I made it without thinking and I apologize.”

“Uncomfortable?” Yohji echoes, a lazy smile working its way across his face. “Hell, no. If it’s okay with you and you’re positive that it’s okay with Chloé then I’d love nothing more than to share the bed. I just want to be sure that it’s okay though, that’s all.”

“It’s okay,” I reply, confident that I’ve got my -- admittedly surprising, even to me -- way and lying back down on the mattress. “Now, come on. Stop prevaricating and get in.”

“I love it when you use big words on me,” Yohji retorts, grinning as he makes short work of stripping down to his boxers and pulling on his clean t-shirt.

“And I love it when you pretend to understand what they mean,” I murmur, both gently and slowly nudging Chloé over closer to the edge of the bed. Once he’s there and I’m, give or take, in the middle of the bed, I pat the now free side of the mattress and yawn. “You coming or what?”

“It’s funny that you should use that phrase,” Yohji smirks, climbing carefully into bed and pulling the comforter up. “While I don’t know whether I should be telling you this at all, let alone right now, I saw Chloé coming out of your room that very first night I spent in London and one of the first thoughts that jumped into my mind was how I’d spend good money to see the pair of you together…”

“You…” Realizing that I’m not actually as righteously indignant about this thought as perhaps I should be, I elbow Yohji in the ribs and snort. “In your dreams, pervert.”

“Aaah… Big words *and* talking dirty to me. I think I’ve died and gone to heaven,” Yohji snickers, squirming closer and wrapping himself around me.

“Much more out of you and I’ll be helping send you there for good,” I respond, only just resisting the urge to give a long heartfelt purr of delight at the position I’ve somehow found myself in. “Now shut up and go to sleep.”

“Goodnight, my love,” Yohji murmurs, planting a soft kiss on the side of my neck. “I… I know now isn’t the time, but I’m just glad that we’re all here…”

“Mmm…” I mumble, knowing that no more a coherent response is required and, closing my eyes, settling down to go to sleep. 

Given how warm, comfortable and *safe* I feel sandwiched between the two men who mean more to me than I ever thought possible, my last conscious thought is that, yes, despite my morals going into conniptions at the very idea, I could get used to this. 

Very used to it.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“No, you’re not imagining things,” I murmur, blinking sleepily at Chloé and, squirming away from Yohji, dragging myself into a sitting position. Dull beams of sunlight struggle through the gaps in the drapes, making the light from the bedside lamps largely redundant and telling me that it’s finally morning, that yet another long and difficult night has been relegated to the annuls of history. 

And that yet another day of stumbling around, blind and tethered in the dark, has just begun.

Oh well. What is it that they say? Win some, lose some? Failing that there’s always Yohji and Ken’s favorite fall back saying of ‘shit happens’. Both pretty much sum it up.

Besides, without wanting to sound like a CD stuck on repeat, things could be worse. Not only am I safe and warm, but I’ve also got Yohji still dead to the world on one side of me while, on the other, I’ve got Chloé half leaning over me, his expression one of fascination as he stares down at Yohji. And, yes, everything else aside, this does actually make me feel oddly content. 

“I know I’m not imagining things,” Chloé replies, settling back on his third of the bed and propping himself up with his back against the pillow. “And the reason I know this, just in case you’re interested, is because my imagination isn’t quite up to supplying me with those particularly… charming… stereo sound effects that I can hear coming from the other side of the bed.” Pausing, he quickly smothers a yawn and shakes his head. “Feel free to tell me it’s none of my business, but does he *always* snore like this?”

“If he’s exhausted or worried, then yes,” I reply, peering over Yohji at the clock and seeing that it’s just gone seven. “You get used to it. I’ve also learned however that a carefully aimed elbow to the ribs can shut him up long enough for you to get back to sleep in silence.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Chloé responds with a faint smile as the kitten pokes her head out from under the covers and chirrups a greeting. “As for you,” he continues, picking the decidedly sleep ruffled looking kitten up and placing her on top of the bedding, “if you insist upon burying yourself in the bed then I’m telling you now that I’m going to take no responsibility whatsoever if you happen to get rolled on and squashed.”

“She was probably just wanting to hide and, if that’s the case, I can’t say that I blame her,” I murmur, reaching down and running my finger along the kitten’s spine, her fur silky soft and warm under my touch. “Hell, why do you think I’m…” Trailing off, I look away from the now purring kitten and, with a sudden sense of hesitation and apprehension, glance at Chloé. “About Yohji, I… I hope you don’t mind.”

“I’d be lying if I didn’t say waking up and finding him there wasn’t a surprise,” Chloé replies, still smiling his weak and gentle smile. “But, well, given the quality of surprises I’ve been having just recently, this one is such a non-event as far as I’m concerned that, well, it actually passes as pleasant.”

“Are you sure?” I query, my glimmer of relief at Chloé’s response not quite strong enough to survive without further verification. “I… It was selfish of me, I know, but I didn’t want to either leave you or let Yohji go. I don’t even really know what come over me. I just opened my mouth and out it came…”

“What came over you, Aya, was basic human need,” Chloé replies quietly, placing his hand over mine and pressing it lightly into the comforter. “It was also as selfless as it was selfish. Although I appreciate it -- and just saying it like this goes no way in expressing how grateful I really am -- you could have sent me back to my own room. It’s not as though I wouldn’t have understood or held it against you.”

“No. I couldn’t have let you go,” I whisper, shaking my head as the kitten, tired of my attention, hops onto Yohji and proceeds to attempt to knead the comforter over his hip. “I just couldn’t. I wanted to stay with you and at the same time I didn’t want Yohji to leave, that’s all. As I said, it was selfish of me and I feel as though I should apologize to both of you. You’re not, neither of you, after all, put on earth to pander to me.”

“Cut the martyr act, Aya,” Chloé responds softly, pressing down harder on my hand and entwining his fingers with mine. “You’ve had a bad time of it just recently too and you’ve got every right to feel needy. What’s more, admitting and embracing it is most likely far healthier in the long run anyway. Sure, you could cut yourself off and do the stoic thing, but that’s not going to help anyone. If you retreat behind your own wall everyone will worry about you and, well, I think we’ve already got more than enough to worry about with things as they are, don’t you?”

“The same goes for you,” I reply, digesting the quiet force behind Chloé’s words and realizing that to argue against them would be to merely invite a debate that, really, neither of us are currently up for. “If… No. There’s no ‘if’ about it. To get through this we…”

“Just have to buckle down and push on,” Chloé finishes, taking his hand away from mine and shrugging. “Really, that’s just all there is to it. We mightn’t want to do it, and it might be hard, but to so much as think of giving up would be the equivalent of sending an envoy to Infinity with a neatly folded white flag and… And, well, to me that’s just unthinkable.”

“I don’t think I’d be putting words into anyone’s mouths if I said the same goes for all of us,” I respond, drawing my knees up and loosely hugging my arms around them. “I just…” Shaking my head, I begrudgingly accept that there’s nothing I could say on the subject that hasn’t already been said before and decide to change tack slightly. “Chloé… What about you, are you… ah… okay?”

“I’m fine,” Chloé murmurs, glancing down at his knees and avoiding my gaze. “I have been better, for sure, but I’m okay.”

“I…” Fuck it. It’s token and it’s probably unwanted and it won’t even convey half of what I’m feeling, but I’ve still got to say it. “I’m sorry… About what happened, I feel as though…”

“Don’t say it, Aya,” Chloé interrupts flatly, an expression of anguish ghosting over his pale face. “Please. You don’t have to say it and I don’t want to hear it. What happened, *happened*. Nothing can change that and not even Faith can make it go away. Now, and I only want to say this once, it’s not your fault and you’re not to blame yourself or to look for others to blame. If it’s anyone’s fault it’s mine. *I* was the one who walked into the trap.”

“I still…”

“Aya! No. Just let it go, please,” Chloé whispers, giving me a beseeching look. “I… I don’t want to talk about it. Actually… On second thoughts I just want to say this… When your worst fear has been realized the only direction you can go is forward, toward the light. Having now done it, having now dragged me back to that place I hoped and prayed never to find myself again, there’s nothing he can do to me now that I’m afraid of. In a sick sense I feel as though I’m now entirely free of him, that there’s nothing more he can ever to do me.”

Free… And to think that’s how I felt when I killed -- or at least *thought* I’d killed -- Kimura.

“Can I ask you a question?” I murmur, watching the kitten clamber inelegantly up the -- to her -- mountain-like terrain of my knees before jumping lightly onto Chloé. As I did only a few moments ago, I realize that there’s nothing to be gained, for either of us, by pushing Chloé and that we’d both just be better off moving the conversation on. Whether I’m choosing the right direction to push it in, however, is something that remains to be seen.

“You can ask,” Chloé replies with a clear lack of enthusiasm as he picks the kitten up and cradles her gently in his hands. “But I’m not guaranteeing that I’ll answer.”

“Fair enough,” I respond easily, hoping that I’m right and that the question I’m about to ask *is* the simplest and least confrontational way of letting Chloé know that, well, I now know everything. “All I want to know, for now anyway, is what happened to Hope…”

“Hope?” Chloé repeats, looking up from the kitten and giving me a puzzled, guarded look. “I’m afraid I don’t quite know what you’re talking about.”

“Hope, as in the black and white kitten Jin gave Faith to give you,” I explain, watching Chloé closely to gauge his reaction to my carefully worded bombshell. “I… I suppose I was just wondering if she’s still alive and, if so, where she is.”

“She’s still very much alive and living in Paris at Rosary’s headquarters,” Chloé replies, his expression changing from puzzlement to one of dull surprise. “Now, and I ask this incidentally out of curiosity, not because I’m annoyed, how on earth do you know about Hope? Was Faith generous enough to dump our miserable history on you while I was out cold?” 

“Because we agreed it was probably easier than someone sitting down and having to tell it to me, he allowed me to dream it,” I reply cautiously, not liking the thin lipped, unreadable expression settling over Chloé’s face. “It was a bit like watching a movie, actually.”

“Oh great,” Chloé groans, swinging his legs over the edge of the mattress and, with the kitten still in his hand, standing up. “You got pictures and everything, that’s… That’s just fabulous. I… Damn! While I’m glad that you now know and that I don’t have to tell any of it to you, I still wish…” Shaking his head, Chloé retrieves his robe from the chair and starts to head towards the door. “The kitten’s hungry,” he mutters, not bothering to glance over his shoulder and pulling the door open. “I’ve got to go see if there’s anything around to feed her with.” 

“Shit!” I exclaim, wishing, as is all too frequently my wont, that I’d never opened my mouth. “Chloé…”

“Leave him,” Yohji whispers, closing his hand around my wrist and effectively stopping me from bolting out of bed and going after Chloé as he disappears through the door. “I think he just needs a moment or two alone to get his head around the fact that you now know all his secrets.”

“But…” Folding my arms across my chest, I slide my legs down the mattress and swivel my head around to glare at Yohji. “How long have you been awake and listening to our, private, I might add, conversation?”

“A while,” Yohji confesses, sitting up and running his fingers through his sleep tussled hair. “I thought about letting you both know but decided that it was probably better if I simply played dead until you’d finished.”

“Well, thanks a lot,” I mutter, sighing as I realize I can’t take out the annoyance I’m feeling towards myself on Yohji. “Sorry. I’m just tetchy with myself for upsetting Chloé.”

“You didn’t upset him,” Yohji murmurs, yawning broadly and draping his arm around my shoulders. “You shocked him, yeah, but I don’t think you upset him. Besides, think about it for a second. There’s a huge difference between knowing someone’s past and actually having *seen* it. Now, without wanting to state the obvious or risk offending you, think about how you’d feel if someone had given Chloé a video of your time with…”

“Okay, okay, I get where you’re going and don’t need to hear any more,” I state hurriedly, cutting Yohji off and, unfolding my arms, relaxing against him. “And, fine, you’re right. I hadn’t quite thought of it in that light. I just thought, I don’t know, that this was easier because it meant that no one had to sit down and actually go through it with me.”

“When Chloé’s had time to think about it I’m sure he’ll agree with you,” Yohji replies, kissing the top of my head and pulling me a little closer. “Now, what about you, huh? How are you feeling?”

“Same as Chloé,” I respond, luxuriating in the feel of Yohji’s arms around me and trying not to think that all too soon the time will come to get up and face the full brunt of everything that happened yesterday. “I’ve been better but I’m okay. My throat and head ache, but I felt worse than this yesterday morning, and, yeah, I’m okay. What about you?”

“Because you’re here and because I’m so comfortable,” Yohji replies, leaning forward and this time planting a kiss on my forehead, “I’m currently subscribing to the happy-happy-joy-joy school of thought and don’t want to bog myself down with any thoughts that could be considered either deep and meaningful or unpleasant. In other words, I think I’m pretty okay. Far better than I have been at any rate.”

“Good,” I reply, following Yohji’s lead and, craning my neck, quickly kissing his cheek. “I’m glad to hear it.”

“You and me both,” Yohji murmurs, bringing his free hand up to cup my cheek. “You and me both.”

“Things can always get worse,” I whisper, leaning into his touch and marveling at how good it makes me feel. “But they can also get better. Never forget that. It may have felt as though we hit a brick wall yesterday but I also think there’s a chance that we’ve turned a corner, a corner that’s going to take us all the way to the end.”

“Well, the sooner we get to the end of the road the damn better,” Yohji replies, resting his forehead against mine and hugging me even tighter. “This last week… Fuck. Let’s just say I don’t think I could take much more if it continues like it has been.”

“Things are better now,” I respond softly. “Not only do we have Rosary on our side but, more importantly, we all survived yesterday and I think, no, I *know* that we’re all stronger for it. Now… Shhh… We’ll be going over this with the others when we get up so let’s just let it go for now…”

“I have to say you’re taking this all a lot better than I would have thought,” Yohji states gently, pulling his head back and looking at me through eyes full of concern. “Don’t take this the wrong way or anything, but no one would think any less of you if…”

“I either take it like this or I crawl under the bed and stay there,” I murmur, shrugging. “That said, I came here to rescue Omi and I’ll be damned if any of Schuldig’s mind games are going to stop me from seeing the mission through. Oh. And while I’m at it, I’ll have to be in my grave before I allow the bastard to touch Chloé again. It might have been personal before but now an invisible line has been crossed, one that I’m determined to make him pay for crossing.”

“I’m sure Schuldig will get his,” Yohji sighs, resting his head on the bedhead and staring at the ceiling. “Somehow.”

“Oh, he’ll get his,” I reply, my voice thick with conviction even though I have idea how we’re going to find him let alone what we’re going to be capable of doing if and when we do. ‘Trust me. This time he’s gone too far.”

“If you’re talking about Schuldig,” Chloé states from the doorway, a tray containing three cups in his hand and the kitten at his heels, “then surely you know already that the concept of going too far is one of those things, just like morals and common decency, that happen to be lost to him. But, enough about that insane lunatic. Wanting to apologize for perhaps scaring you by retreating the way that I did, I’ve made tea.”

“Tea?” Yohji echoes, failing in his attempt to sound suitably grateful as he releases me so that I can take the mug Chloé is holding out to me. “Ah… That’s very kind of you.”

“Like I’d waste my time on making tea for you,” Chloé smirks, his time out of the bedroom clearly having done wonders for his mood. “Here. No sugar, no milk, and with enough caffeine to have a less addicted individual bouncing off the walls. I merely said that I’d made tea because it sounds more civilized.”

“Civilized, huh?” Yohji snorts, holding the cup that Chloé had handed to him up to his nose and inhaling the coffee’s rich aroma with obvious glee. “You two, you just don’t know what it is you’re missing.”

“You mean the heart palpitations and inability to sleep at night?” Chloé queries with feigned politeness as he places his tray by the bedside table and takes a seat in the armchair. “If so, don’t mind me, but I think I’ll just stick to tea.”

“Heart palpitations are a small price to pay,” Yohji smiles, taking a mouthful of coffee and putting on a performance of writhing in pleasure. “Mmm… Bellissimo! Although you don’t drink it you nonetheless sure know how to make it.”

“It’s a skill, what can more can I say,” Chloé murmurs sweetly, rearranging his robe around him and settling back in the chair. The kitten, already learning the lay of the land, waits until he’s finished before jumping neatly onto his lap and promptly curling in a ball. “Now, before I forget,” he continues, watching the kitten for a moment before glancing across at the bed. “ I’ve just spoken to Yuki and Michel on the phone and they both send their regards. Actually, Michel sends hugs, kisses, and far more enthusiasm than I feel capable of conveying at the moment. Because I couldn’t quite take all the love, concern, and affection that was being hurled at me, I got him off the phone as quickly as I possibly could with the promise that we’d all do some sort of webcam link up thing later. Consider yourselves duly warned.”

“Looking forward to it already,” I mutter glumly, making a mental note to avoid -- going for the half-starved vampire look -- dressing in all black as I’m sure seeing me how I looked yesterday would only succeed in making the others even more worried about things than they already are. “I assume though that we’re doing the secretive adult thing and keeping most of what happened yesterday from them, yes?”

“Oh God, absolutely,” Chloé states firmly. “Free’s already told them than we had a… ah… run in… with Schuldig and that Rosary have joined us, but that’s as far as it’s to go. There are some things, contrary to their opinions, that they just don’t need to know.”

“Works for me,” I reply, taking a sip of tea and making no attempt to disguise the fact that I’m watching Chloé intently. While there’s always a chance he could just be putting an act on in order to placate me I don’t think that he is and that his mood is -- honestly -- vastly improved from when he bolted out of the room. There’s just something natural (not to mention totally Chloé-like) about his behavior that makes me believe it’s genuine. And, despite not knowing the catalyst for his change of mood, I have to say that I’m relieved to see it.

“I’d have been surprised if it hadn’t,” Chloé replies, meeting my gaze and smiling. “Stop looking at me like that, Aya. Just because I’m cracked doesn’t mean that I’m going to break. Oh, and before you feel compelled to ask, no, I’m not hamming it up solely to entertain or placate you either. I’m just making a concentrated effort to, you know, move on. That’s all.”

“Seeing as it’s working, keep up the good work,” Yohji interjects, toasting Chloé with his coffee. “In fact, if you’ve got any pointers then I’d love to hear them.”

“You’re asking me for pointers?” Chloé murmurs, shaking his head and causing his fringe to fall forward, covering his eyes. “Sorry, but that would be like asking a blind man for directions. What I can tell you, however, is what the rest of the household are up to, if that’d help…”

“Go on then,” I respond, not really caring all that greatly yet at the same time not wanting to place any undue pressure on Chloé by arguing the point that he’s wrong and is actually one of the most knowledgeable and informative people that I’ve ever met. “Are they doing anything interesting?”

“That depends entirely on your definition of what passes for interesting,” Chloé responds, flicking his hair back and, unless I’m mistaken, giving me a grateful look. “Free and Jin have spent the night fighting, and that incidentally is my word, not theirs, with the computer in an attempt to get it to tell us something that we don’t already know and are now about to take a nap. They’ve also been in contact with Singapura and apparently she’s coming around later this afternoon so that we can pool our resources and plan our next move.” Pausing, Chloé shrugs and takes a mouthful of his tea. “Keegan isn’t around and is probably in some bed or gutter somewhere and I’d probably be struck down by lightning if I claimed to care one way or another about his whereabouts. Ken is still asleep and muttering to himself about revenge and retribution. You should hear him, actually. It’s like he’s suffering from some sort of sleep based version of Tourette’s. Sunbeam’s watching…”

“Sunbeam?” Yohji interrupts with a laugh. “Who’s the poor bastard who goes by the, I’m assuming here, nickname of *Sunbeam*?”

“You mean he hasn’t told you?” Chloé replies with a smirk. “Given how much he loves the sound of his own voice I would have thought he’d have let this slip by now. If he hasn’t though, well, allow me. It’s Finlay. His name, which is Scottish, means sunbeam.”

“Sunbeam,” Yohji snickers. “I love it. It’s very… ah… lovely.”

“It is, isn’t it?” Chloé smiles, finishing his tea and carefully balancing the cup on the arm of the chair. “Anyway, back to my news report. Sunbeam is sprawled out in front of the television set watching some anime program that’s full of big ugly mecha things. He seemed happy enough with his mechas so I simply stepped over him and left him to it. As for Faith, he’s currently asleep in my room. Now, I say currently because I’m about to go in and wake him.”

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” I murmur tentatively, remembering Chloé’s reaction to Faith when he last entered the room and Faith’s comment that neither Chloé nor Free are exactly happy with him at the moment. “Perhaps you should just let him sleep and…”

“I either do it now or I stew,” Chloé states matter-of-factly, cutting me off and, cradling the kitten against his chest, standing up. “I’m annoyed that he and Rosary have been skulking around Tokyo without telling me but at the same time, having had time to think things through a little more clearly, I just want to… *see*… him. It’s been so long that…” Trailing off, Chloé blushes slightly and looks down at his feet. “Well, let’s just say it’s been a long time and leave it at that.”

“So go already,” Yohji declares, grinning as he gestures airily towards the door. “Take your furry friend and go have it out with him while you’re still feeling up to it. You’ll only regret it if you put it off. If it helps in any way, seeing as she bit him on the thumb last night, you can always use the kitten as a shield if things don’t appear to be going your way.”

“She bit him?” Chloé replies, lifting his head and looking amused. “How utterly brilliant. I wish I’d seen it.”

“I’m sure he’d be delighted to show you his wounded thumb,” Yohji replies, still grinning. “Now, unless Aya here has any other words of caution to share with you, just bite the bullet and go.”

“I’m going, I’m going,” Chloé responds, turning around and beginning to walk towards the door. “Oh, by the way, I named the kitten while I was waiting for the kettle to boil in the kitchen. Her name is Chanceux…”

“What sort of odd ass name is Chanceux?” Yohji mutters, giving me a perplexed look as Chloé slips out of the room and pulls the door shut behind him. “It sounds poncy even for a cat.”

“It’s French,” I reply, placing my tea on the bedside table and stretching. “I think, although I could be wrong given that my French isn’t up to much, that it means lucky.”

“Lucky… Mmm… There’s no denying it’s aptness,” Yohji responds, finishing his coffee and balancing it on top of the clock-radio, “but couldn’t he have just, you know, stuck to the plain old English version instead of going French? God knows I’d feel slightly less stupid calling out the name Lucky than I would bellowing out Chanceux. Here Chanceux, Chanceux, Chanceux… See? It sounds ridiculous.”

“I actually quite like it,” I murmur, staring at the door as though I hope it’s somehow going to tell me what I should do next. Embrace the inevitable and get up, or put a hold on it and continue lying here because I’m comfortable and don’t really want to face the day yet? “Lucky is too… passé, too dog-like. When I think of animals called Lucky I immediately think of inanely happy Labradors that would be just as overjoyed to fetch some stupid stick for you as they would be shoving their nose in your crotch.” Shrugging, I glance at Yohji and sigh. “I don’t know what your feelings on the subject are, but this is a stupid conversation to be having. For all I care and for all it matters to us Chloé could have called the kitten Princess Fifi.”

“When you put it like that I’m suddenly all for Chanceux,” Yohji replies blithely, leaning forward and kissing the tip of my nose before staring past me to the door. “So, what do you reckon, was it a performance worthy of an Oscar nomination or was it real?” he queries, his expression serious as he settles back against the bedhead.

“I’m hoping it was real,” I respond softly, shifting closer to Yohji and relaxing against him. “Chloé’s strong and he’s a survivor. I think those few minutes he spent on his own were probably enough for him to put things into perspective and for him to realize that now isn’t the time to falter. You…” Hesitating, I place my hand on Yohji’s shoulder and lean over him so that I’m staring directly into his face. “You know what happened to him, don’t you?”

An expression of anger tinged misery crossing over his face, Yohji nods and gently brushes my bangs away from my forehead. “I know,” he whispers plainly, grimacing as he meets my gaze. “I know and I hate it.”

There being nothing I can add to the quiet sense of grief underlying Yohji’s words, I nod and, taking my hand away from his shoulder, once again glance towards the door. “We should get up,” I mutter dully. “I’m sure there’s things we could be doing instead of just lying here.”

“Like what?” Yohji queries, an expression something akin to disbelief flicking across his face as he reads the time on the clock-radio. “A quarter past seven? Hell, you’ve got to be freakin’ kidding me. No way can I be expected to function on only three hours sleep.”

“I still think we should probably be up,” I reply, making no attempt to pull away from Yohji and put my words into actions. “Or, if you’re still tired you can stay here and I’ll get up.”

“Why?” Yohji murmurs, pulling me down with him as he lays back down on the mattress. “What is it that you have to get up for, Aya? Is it to get first run on whatever Free and Jin have managed to wrestle out of the computer or have you perhaps got a hankering to join Finlay in watching a bunch of mechas try and take out Neo-Tokyo?”

Although I know I should put up some resistance, that I’m being weak if I just give in and stay, I allow Yohji’s maneuvering of me passively and resettle myself around him with a small sigh. “Hate mechas,” I mumble, draping my leg over his, effectively anchoring myself to him, “and if Free and Jin have found something out then, well, there’s a good chance that I don’t want to know what it is anyway. So…”

“So what you can’t quite bring yourself to say is that I’ve won and that we can sleep for another hour, mmm?” Yohji murmurs, bringing his arm around my shoulders to keep me in place. “Honestly, my love, you don’t have to always make things so hard for yourself and can just come out and say what you want.”

“If that’s the case then I want you to shut up and go back to sleep before I change my mind about the mechas and leave you to it,” I reply, closing my eyes and giving a low murmur of approval as, stretching his fingers out, Yohji begins to stroke the tips of my hair. “Now, please…”

“Let’s just make the most of the time we’ve got together,” Yohji finishes softly. “I know…”

~*~*~*~*~

“So is this a members-only coven meeting or can anyone join in?” Ken queries cheerfully, his voice loud even over the crackle of the fire as he walks across the bridge to join us.

Ignoring Chloé’s hurried, whispered request to just ‘leave it’, I look over my shoulder and shoot Ken a scathing look. “What’s that supposed to mean?” I demand as his smile slips and his expression switches from one of happiness to one of doubt. “If you’re going to make snide comments, Ken, I’m telling you now that…”

“Whoa!” Ken exclaims, wincing as he lifts both hands up in a ‘stop right there’, placating gesture. “I just… Shit! Chill, Aya. I didn’t mean anything by it. It’s just that the three of you, standing there around a bonfire in your black coats and with your arms linked, made me think of the witches in Macbeth. Hell, that’s all. There’s no need to get antsy. It wasn’t meant nastily or anything.”

“Ken’s right, Aya. We probably *do* look like the witches from Macbeth,” Chloé murmurs, ever so slightly increasing his hold on my arm as he looks across at Ken and smiles. “Double, double toil and trouble…”

“Yes! That’s the one,” Ken grins, flashing Chloé a relieved look. “See, Aya? Chloé knows what I’m talking about. Sheesh. Going on the ‘crawl into a corner and die’ look you were giving me I was beginning to think I’d said the wrong thing or something.”

“Fire burn, and caldron bubble,” I mutter, looking away from Ken and, willing, just this once, to give him the benefit of the doubt, returning my gaze to the fire. Although the wood was damp and the magazines made from a glossy, hard to ignite paper, the fire -- courtesy of perseverance and Yohji splashing around far more liters of fire accelerant than were really necessary -- is now burning quite nicely and I can feel its warmth both on my face and seeping through my layers of clothing. What I also feel, standing here with my arms linked with Yohji and Chloé (who both felt compelled to assist in keeping me upright when, a few minutes ago now, a mouthful of smoke brought on yet another one of those coughing fits that I just love so much), is as though there is still perhaps hope in the world and that we can still beat Infinity without having to take any more backwards steps towards the abyss. Why exactly I feel this isn’t something I know. What I do know however is that, needing something positive to focus on, it’s a feeling I simply want to accept and not over-analyze.

“Well? Come on, Yohji. It’s your turn,” Chloé states, looking over at Yohji and laughing. “Here. I’ll help get you started… Scale of dragon; tooth of wolf…”

“Witches’ mummy; maw and gulf,” I prompt, quietly astonished by the amounts of completely useless information my memory is capable of retaining. “Chloé’s right, Yohji. It’s your turn.”

Shaking his head, Yohji takes a drag on his cigarette and looks across to Ken for help. “They worrying you as much as they’re worrying me?” he queries facetiously. “I mean, Christ, what the fuck is a ‘maw’ anyway?”

“I have no idea and, what’s more, no interest whatsoever in ever finding out,” Ken retorts, grinning as he drapes his good arm around Chloé and gives him an out-of-the-blue, friendly hug. “I’m glad you’re okay,” he continues, avoiding the surprised looks both Yohji and I are giving him by staring down at the ground. “I also want to… ah… apologize for the way I’ve been treating you recently and hope that you can forgive me. I know I’ve been an idiot and, well, yesterday has just made me realize that I have to get my head out of my ass. And, uh, yeah, I think that pretty much covers it,”

“You didn’t have to apologize as I know it’s only been your concern for Omi that’s been causing you to lash out,” Chloé replies softly, reaching up and trailing his gloved fingers lightly across Ken’s hand, “but I thank you anyway and want you to know that I truly appreciate the gesture. It really was very thoughtful and kind of you.”

“Yeah, well, I meant it, okay?” Ken mutters, blushing as he removes his arm from Chloé’s shoulders. “I’ve been acting like a wanker and I’m sorry. Aya, Yohji… If I’ve pissed either of you off in any way, shape or form then, hell, while I’m at it, I apologize to you too.”

“You’ve been acting like a wanker because you’ve been worried,” Yohji replies with a shrug, his acceptance of Ken’s apology both easy and unconditional. “Hell, in our own ways we’ve all been acting odd. You’re right though, Ken. If we want to ensure that a repeat of yesterday never occurs then we have to put aside any petty differences and our own personal issues and bind together.”

“So says the head musketeer,” I state drily, giving Yohji a dismissive look before turning my attention to Ken and peering at him suspiciously. “What gives, huh, Ken?” I continue, my inner skeptic not quite up to simply taking his word for his sudden change of heart. “Did the doctor give you something that’s caused you to wake up to yourself or is this new you solely of your own doing? Forgive me, but I’m curious.”

“It’s solely of my own doing,” Ken responds, poking his tongue out before, just for good measure and because some microscopic part of his brain no doubt thinks it’s a good idea, sticking his finger up at me. “God, Aya, stop looking at me like that. I honestly and truly and I’d-swear-on-a-bible-if-one-was-handy meant it. I’m sorry for being rude to Chloé and I’m sorry that I’ve been behaving a prize idiot. All I want is for that to be clear so we can move on and function once again as a team.”

A-ha. *Team*. Silly me. I should have known. Using Ken logic, which is something I’m loathe to do for fear of it one day making complete sense to me, this time yesterday it was Weiss against Krypton Brand whereas now it’s Krypton Brand against -- the interlopers -- Rosary. Better, in other words, the devil you know. Trust Ken’s motives to be so inanely simple and uncomplicated.

“Fine,” I mutter, giving a curt nod to indicate my acceptance. “So long as it lasts and you remember that Krypton Brand is your team now, not Weiss, and that they’re where your loyalties should lie.”

“Got it,” Ken sighs, holding both his hands out and warming them against the fire. “Now, Aya, have you finished giving me the third degree or would you perhaps like to question me some more?”

“One more question and then you don’t have to talk to me for the rest of the day if you don’t want to,” I reply, ignoring the gentle, warning, nudge of Yohji’s elbow into my side and smiling benignly. “How are you feeling? I saw that your shoulder was bleeding in the garage, but…”

“The doc says it’ll heal in no time,” Ken responds, grimacing as he puts on the macho act of rotating his shoulder for me. “Fu-uck,” he grinds out, clamping his hand over his wound and looking as though he’s counting to ten to stop himself from screaming. 

“I’m also assuming that he told you not to put any pressure on it for the next couple of days, yes?” Chloé murmurs, making a tsking sound under his breath as he looks at Ken with obvious concern. “Actually, should you even be up?”

“If Mr Cold And Flu over there can be up and about then I fail to see why an itty-bitty shoulder wound should see me stuck in bed,” Ken mutters, slowly letting go of his shoulder and, with a deep breath, forcing himself to stand up a little straighter. “It’s… ah… fine, really. So long as I don’t do anything as fucking stupid as that again and keep taking the kick ass pills he left for me then it should be one hundred percent recovered in a couple of days. Besides, if anything’s going to go down then there’s no freakin’ way I’m going to play the role of the invalid and look after the house while everyone else is out kicking Infinity butt.”

“Mmm… And we did such a good job of that yesterday too,” I reply flatly. “I’ve heard that we’ll be meeting later this afternoon to pool resources and…” Noticing that Yohji is watching something behind me, I trail off and am in the process of looking over my shoulder when, with a startled yelp, Chloé pulls his arm away from mine and takes a stumbled step backwards.

“I’m glad to see I haven’t lost the touch,” Finlay announces, pointing at Chloé and laughing as he joins us by the fire

“You… You bastard!” Chloé huffs, straightening his coat and giving Finlay a sour look. “Not that I’m sure you care or anything, but you very nearly caused me to have a heart attack.”

Smiling at my blank expression -- I know I missed something but have no idea what -- Yohji unlinks his arm from mine and pats me on the shoulder. “He snuck up behind Chloé and grabbed him by the waist,” he explains, snickering. “You should have seen it. Chloé’s expression was priceless.”

“I’m glad you find it so amusing,” Chloé retorts, returning to my side and looking as though he’s trying incredibly hard to suppress a smile. “As for you, Finlay… No. Forget it. I’ve got nothing to say to you whatsoever.”

“What? You mean there’s going to be no ‘I’ve missed you’s’ or ‘oh, Finlay, I’m so glad that you’re here’s’?” Finlay replies, grinning as he places the brown paper shopping bag he’d been carrying under his arm on the lawn by his feet. “Damn, Chloé, you sure know how to disappoint a person.”

“Given how many times Chloé’s snuck up on me,” Yohji interjects, “allow me to say that *I’m* glad you’re here. Hell, watching you sneak up on him like that almost gives me hope that perhaps one day even I’ll be able to manage it. You know, just so I can get my own back.”

“He can only do it because I made the mistake of teaching him how,” Chloé states with a much put upon sigh. “Isn’t that right, Finlay? Go on, tell the nice people here how before I took you under my wing you moved with all the grace and silence of a herd of paralytic water buffalo.”

“He’s right,” Finlay replies solemnly, walking over behind Chloé and wrapping his arms around him in a bear hug. “Before the master here so kindly taught me the tricks of the trade you could hear me coming a mile off.”

“And note how he repays my kindness?” Chloé murmurs, smiling as he squirms free of Finlay’s embrace and, turning around, gives him a light smack across the head. “There. That’s for making me look like an idiot with bad nerves in front of my friends.” Pausing, he leans forward and kisses Finlay’s forehead. “That, however, was because I have, for some totally odd and somewhat worrying reason, missed you and because, yes, okay, I *am* glad that you’re here.”

“I knew deep down that you’d missed me,” Finlay grins, glancing across at Ken and looking surprised to see him standing there. “Hey, how’s your shoulder?” 

“It’s fine, thank you,” Ken replies politely, his guarded expression reinforcing my theory that he now sees Rosary if not as an enemy then at the very least as something of a considerable cause for distrust. “Now, if you’ll excuse me…”

“Uh-uh! You ain’t going anywhere yet,” Finlay interrupts, going back over to his bag and picking it up. “Not until you’ve had a toasted marshmallow or two anyway.”

“Oh my God, you remembered!” Yohji exclaims, walking around me to peer in Finlay’s bag. “I thought you were joking last night when you mentioned it.”

“I never joke when it comes to food,” Finlay smirks, pulling out a packet of marshmallows and handing them to Yohji. “To be perfectly honest with you I’d far rather, you know, the other option. But, well, Aya’s been sick and I know Chloé would refuse, so I thought this will just have to be the way to go as there’s no way I’m letting a fire like this go to waste.”

“The other option?” Chloé queries, raising an eyebrow as he watches Finlay retrieve a couple of metal skewers from his bag before carelessly dropping it at his feet. “No. On seconds thoughts, seeing as I’m sure I don’t want to know, please forget I asked,” he adds, shaking his head fondly. “There are some things, after all, that one is simply better off not knowing.”

“Still no fun, I see,” Finlay grins, taking the marshmallows back from Yohji and, after popping the bag open, extending them to Chloé. “Here. Want some now or would you prefer to wait until they’re toasted?”

“I don’t want them period,” Chloé replies, wrinkling his nose and pushing the bag back towards Finlay. “Forgive me, but I don’t get the point of marshmallows. They’re soft and they’re squishy and they… well… they stick to the top of your mouth.”

“And?” Finlay prompts, skewering a marshmallow and holding it out over the fire. “The point you’re trying to make is *what* exactly?”

“And, while I’m at it, I fail to see the point of why you’d want to take something that’s soft and squishy to begin with and make it *hot*, softer, and squishier,” Chloé sighs, choosing to ignore Finlay’s question and giving him a long suffering look. “It’s just pointless.” 

“It’s not pointless at all, it’s *good*,” Finlay retorts, brandishing the skewered marshmallow at Chloé. “Here. Come on. Just try it. You don’t know what you’re missing out on.”

“What’s more, I can go to my grave in blissful ignorance too,” Chloé mutters, batting the offending marshmallow away and turning around to head back towards the house. “Seeing as you’re so mad keen on it, *you* eat it. I’m leaving.”

“Your loss,” Finlay grins, spinning around and waving the marshmallow at me. “I bet Aya’s more fun than you are and won’t say no.”

“Uh…” Shit. Why turn on me all of a sudden? Like Chloé I’m not a fan of marshmallows under normal circumstances and the idea of eating one that’s been toasted, it has to be said, fails to interest me at all. “Thanks, but…”

“Uh-uh, no buts,” Finlay interrupts, taking matters into his own hands and, before I have time to stop him, pulling the marshmallow off the skewer and -- ack! -- popping it into my mouth. “See? It’s good, isn’t it?”

*Good*? 

My God. No. It isn’t good. Not even close to good in fact. It’s warm and… soggy… and, worst of all, I think it’s stuck to my tongue.

I also think Ken should stop laughing before I decide to see just how much pressure his shoulder can take before he drops, writhing, to the ground in agony.

“Ha! So now we finally know how to shut him up,” Ken snickers, tears of laughter welling in his eyes as, his fickle nature making him warm to Finlay at my expense, he points at me. “Good one, Finlay. I’ve never seen Aya shut up so quickly before.”

“Aya?” Yohji murmurs, choking back his own merriment in order to plaster a suitably concerned looking expression on his face. “You okay? I’m sure Finlay didn’t really mean to gum you up.”

“Of course he didn’t mean to gum him up,” Chloé comments, wandering back over and giving Finlay another light smack around the head. “He was just being his usual irresponsible, idiot self, that’s all,” he continues, tugging on the sleeve of my coat to indicate I should follow him. “Come on, Aya. Let’s leave the *children* to their marshmallows and their bonfire.”

Forcing myself to swallow the marshmallow -- because spitting the damn thing out wouldn’t have been polite and, besides, given how soft it is I probably would have missed hitting Ken with it anyway -- I shoot each of the three fools standing around the fire a withering look before starting to trail after Chloé. “Enjoy,” I mutter, more annoyed at having been laughed at than I am at Finlay’s stupidity. “Seriously. I hope you all eat so many of the disgusting things that you make yourselves sick and, well, we’ll see who’s laughing then.”

“You know, I think I was wrong,” Finlay drawls, skewering another marshmallow and holding it over the fire. “Aya, you’re not any fun either. In fact, in the boring old farts stakes, you and Chloé deserve each other. So, go… See if we care. There’s more for us if you’re not here anyway.” 

There being nothing I can really think of saying in reply to being called a boring old fart, I choose to let silence speak for me and, with one last look at Yohji, turn around and walk over to the bridge, an amused smile tugging on my lips.

“You’re smiling,” Chloé murmurs, falling in step with me. “You’ve… hell, *we’ve* both just been insulted, yet you’re actually smiling. Dare I ask why?”

“Because no one means any harm and because, look at them, they’re clearly enjoying themselves,” I reply, shrugging as we walk over the bridge and onto the patio. “Look at Yohji in particular. He’s having fun and for that reason alone I’m prepared to overlook a few joking insults and being force fed the odd revolting marshmallow. He… He deserves a laugh. Everyone does.”

“When you put it like that I have to agree with you,” Chloé responds, taking a seat at the glass topped outdoor table so he can keep an eye on the others. “You’re right, they look like they’re having fun.” Pausing, his smile slips and he looks down at his hands. “Long may it continue too.”

“You said it,” I sigh, continuing across the patio and coming to a halt at the glass sliding door. “Now, given that I can’t cope with my mouth tasting like a burnt marshmallow, I’m going to make tea. Would you like a cup?”

“That would be lovely, thank you,” Chloé replies, looking up and nodding. “Unless you’d like a hand or don’t want to come back outside, I think though that I’ll just remain here. You know, so I can sound the alarm in case one of those three idiots accidentally set fire to themselves.”

“You stay there and I’ll bring it out. I won’t be long,” I reply, stepping into the house and walking through the living room to the kitchen. Once there I switch the kettle on and am in the process of retrieving two cups from the cupboard when I sense a presence in the doorway. When he -- and it has to be a he seeing as Singapura isn’t due for another hour or so -- doesn’t say anything by way of greeting, I place my cups on the bench and turn around to face him. 

And, damn... 

So much for hoping to keep my good mood.

To my decided… displeasure… the newcomer is Keegan and, leaning against the doorframe in a pose that would do a prostitute proud, he stares back at me appraisingly, as though he’s got so many smart ass comments running through his head that he can’t quite decide which one he really wants to hit me with. Barely dressed in a short silk robe of turquoise and with his hair artfully ruffled, it’s clear that he’s only just got up and, almost as though he’s wanting to reiterate this fact of life, he yawns broadly and puts on a performance of stretching. My dislike of the man grows another notch when, courtesy of his languid stretching, his robe falls open to the waist, exposing both his gym-toned chest and the myriad of bite and scratch marks that litter it.

Shaking my head -- so he got fucked last night? How positively wonderful for him. Like I honestly care or need to see the evidence though -- I turn back to my tea preparations and ignore him as he walks further into the room. 

“Your hair, you know, it really is the most *unique* color,” Keegan drawls, coming to stand alongside me. “After meeting you the other day I’d wanted to ask you what brand of hair color you use. Now though, having seen proof that it’s the same color everywhere, I know that it’s real…”

Flinching either at Keegan’s proximity or his carefully executed comment, I take a step away from him and, schooling my face into a mask of disinterest, look him up and down. “Have we the heating too hot for you in here, Keegan?” I query, disguising my intense dislike for him with feigned politeness and gesturing at his skimpy robe. “If you would like we could lower the temperature for you. You only have to ask.”

“All I want is to be out of here,” Keegan sneers, giving me a condescending look and running his fingers through his hair. “Hell, you think I *want* to be stuck babysitting you and your loser mates, huh?”

“I’m sure you know where the door is,” I murmur quietly, refusing to fall into Keegan’s verbal trap and shrugging. “Please feel free to use it.”

“Like I don’t wish I could,” Keegan retorts, fingering a particularly vivid looking love bite on the side of his neck and smirking with what I suspect are memories of the mouth that placed it there. “I don’t want to be here any more that you want me here. Fuck! Again, do you honestly think I want to be anywhere near fucking Rose…”

“Call Chloé that within my hearing again and I’ll be showing you the door personally,” I interrupt, somehow managing to keep my voice both low and matter-of-fact which, given how -- increasingly irate -- I’m feeling, is an achievement all in itself. “And, before you tell me that Faith will protect you, allow me to make it clear that I don’t care and that I’m not the slightest bit afraid of Faith either. Have you got that? I don’t like you and I won’t, on behalf of the members of Krypton Brand, take any shit from you. Now, there being nothing else I have to say to you, Keegan, I’d appreciate it if you’d just fuck off.”

“There’s a lot I could say to that, Aya,” Keegan murmurs, still stroking his love bite, “but, well, I simply can’t be bothered.”

“So there is a God after all,” I mutter drily, filling the teapot with boiling water from the kettle and drumming my fingers impatiently on the bench top as I wait for the tea to steep.

“Mmm… So much I could say,” Keegan states cryptically, a cold, vaguely malicious smile spreading across his face as he starts to stroll towards the door. “But, as you wish, I’ll leave you and your foolhardy loyalty in peace. Enjoy your tea, Aya. Oh! Before I leave, perhaps you’d be so kind as to recommend a good magazine to read? I’ve already devoured the one that was left on the coffee table and was hoping you might have some more like it hidden somewhere around the place…”

The desire to do something violent to Keegan very nearly getting the better of me, I only just resist the urge to throw something at the back of his head and, with a hand that’s shaking with anger, force myself to ignore him and start pouring the tea. 

Chuckling in a way that seems to indicate he’s taking my silence as a form of victory, Keegan slips out of the kitchen, his fun, for the time being, had.

Sighing, I place the teapot on the sink and carry my two steaming cups of tea out of the kitchen, my mind full of none-too-becoming thoughts about Keegan.

The sense of memory and knowledge that Faith ‘gifted’ to me in my sleep tells me that Keegan is an integral part of Rosary and that they’re as loyal to him as any of us are to our ‘team’, but, shit, how they put up with the manipulative little bastard is beyond me. I’ve only spent a grand total of something like ten minutes in his company and already I despise him as much as I’ve ever despised anyone who’s never harmed me personally in any way. And the fact that he’s got a vendetta against Chloé has nothing to do with it either. He could be Chloé’s best friend and, although I’d probably make an effort to give him a chance or two to redeem himself simply in an attempt to understand what it was that Chloé saw in him, I’d still loathe him. If I had my doubts about Rosary or didn’t trust Faith I think I’d even be prepared to go so far as to consider him an enemy. There’s just something that… *off*… and unsettling about him. And, yes, while I don’t have any proof to back this feeling up, I honestly think there’s a chance that he could prove to be dangerous.

Or, then again, perhaps my innate dislike for him is making me see things that aren’t really there. Who knows. Keegan, ultimately -- as with just about everything else -- is simply one of those things that have to be dealt with ‘as best as possible’. And, preferably, ‘as *little* as possible’.

Walking through the living room, I step out onto the patio and find Chloé, cigarette in hand, staring vacantly out across the pond. While too slow disguise the fact he’d been smoking, he quickly stubs the offending smoke out in the ashtray and, with a small shrug, flashes one of his most disarmingly innocent smiles at me. “Yohji walked all the way over here to offer it to me,” Chloé comments as, placing the two cups of tea on the table, I make a disapproving sound under my breath and make a point of pushing the ashtray over to the other side of the table. “It would have been rude of me to refuse.” 

“Mmm… Terribly rude,” I murmur, shaking my head and taking a seat opposite Chloé. “But, hey, if you want to smoke then please feel free to knock yourself out. Seeing as I’m bound to see out the last few years of my life visiting Yohji in a cancer ward somewhere I may as well visit you while I’m there too.”

“Not to worry, given the years of passive smoking you’ll have endured by that stage you’ll probably be a patient there too,” Chloé replies with a snort of amusement as he pulls his tea towards him. “We’ll be able to bond and spend quality time while receiving our weekly doses of chemotherapy. It’ll be lovely. Instead of telling tales to grandchildren we’ll be able to regale the nurses with swashbuckling stories of all our adventures and how many ‘dark beasts’ we’ve killed.”

“And if we do that we’ll then either be receiving our chemo in the local psychiatric hospital or prison for the criminally insane,” I respond, shaking my head again, this time in wonderment at the blackly humorous topic of our conversation. “Honestly. Can you imagine… No. Forget it. This is disturbing topic and I think we need to change it.”

“As you wish,” Chloé replies, glancing over at me expectantly. “And? If it’s not lung cancer you wish to discuss then what is it you *do* want to talk about? If it’s about yesterday then I’m telling you now not to waste your breath as I’d rather discuss in explicit detail the symptoms of Ebola or whether or not I feel whatever the name is of that silly football team Ken idolizes has a chance of winning the premiership this year.”

“I’m as happy to pretend yesterday never happened as you are,” I murmur, picking my tea up and taking a much needed sip. “Speaking of unpleasant though, you can stop worrying about Keegan being dead in a gutter somewhere as he’s strutting his stuff inside.”

“Who said anything about being worried?” Chloé queries drily, pulling his gloves off and cupping his bare hands around his mug. “Besides, I *know* he’s back and, on the off chance you’re curious as to *how* I know this, well, it’s because he stood in the living room and flashed me. It was great. You know, one of those truly life affirming moment’s you’re occasionally lucky enough and privileged enough to have.”

“He… flashed you?” I state, my opinion of Keegan, not that I even thought it possible, dropping another notch as I try to work out what would have possessed him to have done something so Goddamn pathetic and juvenile. “I’m sorry, but, and, yes, I have to ask this, *why*? I don’t understand.”

“Seeing as I doubt even Freud would be able to form an opinion on Keegan, I wouldn’t let it bother you,” Chloé mutters, frowning as he stares down at his tea. “The best I can offer by way of explanation is, I suppose, because he *could*. Either that or he’s just so proud of his love bites that he thought my life was incomplete without getting a look at them.”

“Having had them exposed to me in the kitchen, it must be that then,” I reply, taking another mouthful of tea before placing my cup back down on the table. “If he was waiting for a congratulatory pat on the back though then I’m sorry to say I didn’t oblige and, after all but coming out and threatening him, told him to fuck off.”

“Good,” Chloé replies, lifting his head and smiling wanly. “That’s two strikes in quick succession. All he has to do now is misguidedly say something allegedly smart to Free and, strike three, he’ll be so demoralized that with any luck we won’t see him for the rest of the day.”

“If failing to have any impact on me was strike one, what was strike two?” I query, following Chloé’s lead and warming my hands around my mug. “While I’ll freely admit it’s childish of me, I’m hoping it was something good.”

“Oh, trust me, it was good,” Chloé responds, lifting his right hand away from his cup to gesture across the garden to where Yohji, Ken, and Finlay are still standing around the fire. “You see, Ken, with absolutely immaculate timing, turned around to face the house just as Keegan was doing his… ah… thing in the doorway. He then, with, I have to say, perfectly nonplussed composure, raised his little finger in what I think is the universally accepted sign of, well, you know… it not exactly being worth bragging about… before oh-so-casually turning back to the fire. Keegan went so red that I honestly thought he was going to self-combust on the spot.”

“I almost wish I’d been here to see it now,” I reply, laughing as I picture both Ken’s unimpressed reaction and Keegan’s -- however fleeting it may have been -- moment of inadequacy. God knows it’s about what his inane act deserved. “Actually, and if this falls under the banner of things you don’t feel up to talking about then just tell me, what’s Keegan’s deal, huh? I know what his reasons are for hating you but there just has to be more to it than that. I mean, surely there just has to be something, I don’t know, not quite right about him.”

“Keegan is… a law unto himself,” Chloé murmurs slowly, once again glancing down into his cup. “He is difficult and pretentious and obnoxious and, well, I dislike him intensely for reasons that have nothing whatsoever to do with his hatred of me. To be honest with you, I can understand why it is he hates me and don’t even hold it against him. None of it might have been my fault but, still, I can see why I’d be as good a person to blame as any for what he views as his betrayal. If I was in his shoes I’d probably even feel the same way.”

“And Schuldig and his then cronies feeding him the sob story that his brother abandoned him in favor of you didn’t help,” I sigh, taking another mouthful of tea. “Yeah, yeah… I *get* that. I don’t like it and there’s no way I’m just going to sit quietly by while he sharpens his claws on you, but, yeah, that side of the story I can, to an extent, comprehend. Again though, surely there has to be more to it.”

“The world is full of unpleasant people,” Chloé replies softly, shrugging as he tightens his hold on his cup. “Some are made that way by circumstances beyond their control and some are simply born. Keegan, while it’s not something I’d ever say to Faith, I think falls in to the latter category. Half of the time I don’t even think his obnoxious behavior is intentional as it’s simply, to him, normal and, as such, perfectly acceptable. Other times, when it’s clear that he’s doing it on purpose, I suspect it’s solely for his own amusement. I could be wronging him, of course, and perhaps he is just a poster child for the destructive nature of the Rosenkrus method of teaching, but I just don’t think so. Like Schuldig, he’s always struck me as not being… quite right…”

“Jin and Finlay though, they trust him?” I query, deliberately not asking about Faith because I already know that Keegan’s got him -- his guilt laden big brother -- under his thumb. “If he’s such a, and why beat around the bush here, prick, how do they put up with him? I’ve spent something like ten minutes in his company and already I’m looking forward to never having to see him again.”

“Finlay gets on really well with him,” Chloé responds, glancing once again across the garden to the fire. “In fact you could probably go so far as to call them close friends. That said, Finlay gets on with just about everyone -- which, incidentally, is why I’m thinking Ken’s still out there and hasn’t already stormed inside to sulk -- and has absolutely no qualms about ticking Keegan off if he annoys him. Jin, on the other hand, despises him and only tolerates his company because he idolizes Faith and would follow him to the ends of the earth. Like all teams though, Rosary have a dynamic that, regardless of how outsiders may perceive it, works for them.”

“I still say rather them than me,” I mutter, leaning back in my chair and, like Chloé, gazing across at the still roaring bonfire. Despite his initial dismissive reaction to Finlay, Ken -- his sweet tooth apparently getting the better of his reluctance to socialize with the ‘enemy’ -- is busily shoveling in marshmallows as though he hasn’t eaten in a week and I honestly think, going by the happy expression on his face, that he’s even somehow managing to enjoy himself. Going on the bright smile he’s flashing around, I’d hazard a guess that Yohji’s deriving a fair degree of enjoyment from the admittedly somewhat quaint situation as well. Not quite being able to comprehend the pleasure factor of a fire coupled with sickly tasting marshmallows, I don’t quite get it myself but am nonetheless happy for them both. In fact, given that the alternative is probably sitting somewhere and making themselves ill with worry, I’m even prepared to go so far as to say bring on the marshmallows. After all, there’s no end to the form that much needed diversions can take.

As though sensing our eyes on him, Yohji turns around and, his smile brightening, waves a skewered marshmallow with threatening intent in our direction. “Come on,” he calls out, “you know you want it.”

“Mmm… Like I want a hole in my head,” Chloé murmurs, returning Yohji’s smile and shaking his head. “How about you, Aya? Ready for your second marshmallow?”

“I’d rather eat nothing but McDonald’s for week,” I retort, glancing away from Yohji and returning my attention to Chloé. “Now, enough about bloody marshmallows. I want to know one more thing about my new special friend Keegan, and that’s whether at the very least he can be trusted to do his job. If he can’t then I don’t care how good the rest of Rosary are as they may as well pack their bags and leave now as I’ll refuse to work with them.”

“When it comes to a mission you can trust him enough to do his part to the best of his ability,” Chloé replies, the flicker of annoyance that crosses his face telling me in no uncertain terms that he’s just about had enough of talking about Keegan. “He’ll do what Faith tells him and he’ll do it well. Although it pains me to compliment him, he works exceptionally well when he has to and I’ve never had any reason to doubt either his professionalism or his motives. As obnoxious as he is, he stays if Rosary stay and I think it’s now as clear as crystal that we need them. Hell, let’s face it, that we need as much help as we can possibly get.”

“So what you’re basically saying is that we just have to tolerate the little creep until we’ve defeated Infinity and have Omi back,” I respond, finishing my tea and, with a sigh, pushing the cup towards the middle of the table. “Okay. Fine. While I’m not promising to be successful, I’ll do my best to ignore him and not let him get to me.”

“Oh, whatever you do, don’t let him get to you,” Chloé states, reaching across and giving my arm a light squeeze. “If there’s one thing I’ve learnt over time it’s that there’s absolutely nothing to be gained by letting Keegan push your buttons. He’s simply not worth it. Just let him go and, trust me, he’ll lose interest.”

“I’ll try and remember that,” I mutter, pushing my sleeve up and glancing at the time on my watch. Seeing that it’s nearly midday, I sit up a little straighter and, with another sigh, spread my hands out flat on the table top. “It’s Asuka’s funeral today,” I murmur quietly, knowing that Chloé will neither care about nor question my abrupt change in topic and staring down at my hands. “Did you know that? Yohji wanted to go but I told him that he couldn’t, that it was simply impossible and that there was no way I was going to allow it.”

“Of course he couldn’t go,” Chloé replies gently, his hand still a comforting weight on my arm. “Not only is he meant to be dead but the police may have picked him up as a suspect. I know it might seem harsh, but you were right in putting your foot down and I’m sure Yohji understands.”

“He was hurt,” I whisper, glancing at the stark contrast Chloé’s pale hand makes against the black of my coat in preference to looking up and inadvertently making eye contact with him. “All he wanted to do was pay his last respects in the proper manner and I had to crush him with logic. It doesn’t seem right.” Pausing, I pull my arm away from Chloé and loosely hug myself. “Then again, not telling me that she’d been murdered wasn’t right either. I had to find out about it by reading it in the paper. He says he was only trying to protect me but, Goddamn it, he should have told me! How can I be there for him if he goes out of his way to keep his pain from me, huh? It… It’s just wrong.”

“He wanted it kept from you because you were ill and he felt you already had enough to worry about,” Chloé responds, retracting his hand and giving me a concerned look. “And, before you see fit to pass comment on the rest of us being in on the conspiracy to keep you in the dark, we only did so as we happened to agree with him. It had nothing to do with not thinking you were up to the task of providing comfort and everything to do with you having enough on your plate already. Perhaps Yohji was wrong in his decision to keep Asuka’s death from you but you can’t deny that it was his decision and his alone to make. Just as you can neither begrudge nor take personally the days he’s spent predominantly in his own company. The murder of his wife, after all, would have hit him hard.”

“There’s no ‘perhaps’ about it,” I mutter querulously, unfolding my arms and slumping back in my chair. “His decision was a wrong one. While I may understand it, I certainly don’t appreciate it and hate that he kept something so important from me.”

“Be the reasons valid or not, it’s a person’s prerogative to keep secrets if they feel they need to,” Chloé murmurs softly. “There are, after all, some things that are just too personal, too painful, to talk about even to those they love and trust.”

“I have no secrets from you,” I retort, the words slipping carelessly out of my mouth and, to my horror, causing Chloé to flinch. “Oh, shit!” I add hurriedly, knowing full well that the damage has already been done and hating myself for having been so insensitive. “Forgive me, Chloé, please. I didn’t mean it that way at all. I…”

“It’s all right, Aya,” Chloé interrupts flatly, leaning back in his seat and staring out at the pond. “I was wondering when we’d get on to the after effects of Faith’s little documentary screening and, if you must know, I’m almost relieved that the time is finally here. So, come on, if you’ve got anything to say to me then you may as well just hit me with it. If knowing the whole sordid truth is going to change anything between us then I think I’ve got a right to know, don’t you?”

“I didn’t mean in that way at all,” I repeat, biting back a sigh and, feeling as though I desperately need something to toy with, pulling my empty cup back towards me and rolling it between my hands. “Seriously. I opened my mouth without thinking and I apologize. I also want you to know that although I know the full story now it doesn’t change a thing. As far as I’m concerned you’re still exactly the same person you were yesterday and…”

“Yeah, right,” Chloé snorts, interrupting me again and shaking his head dismissively. “Come off it, Aya. I mean, how can you sit there and casually say something like that? If you’re angry or disgusted with me then I’d appreciate it if you’d just come out and say it instead of tiptoeing around and trying to protect my delicate sensibilities. Should it help, I promise not to put a hex on you or turn you into a toad for simply being honest.”

“But I *am* being honest,” I murmur, frowning down at the cup and wondering just how on earth I’m going to convince Chloé I’m telling the truth without running the risk of getting into an all out argument with him. An all out argument that, really, wouldn’t even achieve anything and which we can both most definitely do without at the moment. “Christ. What can I say or do to convince you? Just tell me and I’ll do it. Your… Shit! Your past is of no concern of mine. I’m sorry that those things happened to you but nothing Faith showed me changes how I feel about you. You’re my friend and…”

“Mmm… I’m your friend yet I’ve busily spent near on a year hiding my past from you,” Chloé interjects, once again cutting me off. “Now, come on, Aya. There’s no way that can strike you as being either right or fair. You’ve been nothing but honest with me whereas I’ve gone out of my way to keep you in the dark. Surely there must be a part of you, that part of you that you’re fighting hard to repress in favor of desperately searching for the right thing to say, that hates me for having been so dishonest with you.”

“I don’t hate you,” I reply plainly, glancing across at Chloé and shrugging. “I’m a little, I suppose you’d say, hurt that you didn’t feel as though you could either trust or confide in me, but I don’t hate you. Quite frankly I think your secrets would have to include the facts that you’d been a drug pushing pedophile with links to people smuggling and child prostitution before I’d be able to find it in myself to feel any differently towards you. You’re my friend, Chloé and, despite wishing you’d never had to have gone through any of those things, I’m simply not the slightest bit bothered by your past.”

And, if that little spiel doesn’t work then I don’t know what I’m going to do short of either shaking him or retreating inside to plan a better argument in the sanctuary of the bedroom. Like the conversation -- that’s now turned out to be ‘round one’ -- in Chloé’s bedroom in London last week, I have absolutely no idea what I’m supposed to say or how I can comfort him. All I have is the truth but, while that should be enough, I lack both the patience and the ability to convey it the way it should be, which I know is something that works against me.

“I do trust you, you know,” Chloé murmurs softly after a few moments of contemplative silence, his gaze still fixed firmly on the pond. “I actually trust you as much as I trust Faith. I… Perhaps, instead of sitting here trying for martyr of the year, I should be the one doing the apologizing. Although it would be untruthful of me to say I wanted to tell you, I knew that I should, that I was only making things harder on myself by avoiding it, but… I’m sorry… I just couldn’t. In fact, I’d feel ill just thinking about it. I thought, I don’t know, that knowing about Rosenkrus would give you cause to doubt me and that, well, as abhorrent as this sounds, that if I told you about Schuldig I’d somehow give the impression that I was playing a sick game of one-upmanship…”

“I…” If there’s one thing that will never fail to amaze me then it’s how a person’s mind operates. One-upmanship? Oh dear God. What an utterly contemptible thought. “Chloé…” 

“I know,” Chloé sighs, glancing at me fleetingly before turning his attention to the tabletop. “I told you it was sick. There was… more to it than that though. As illogical and as selfish as my reasons might have been, when it all boiled down to it I simply lacked the courage to tell you. I… Again. I’m sorry. It’s just that you came to mean so much to me so quickly that I was afraid knowing the truth about me would make you think, well, less of me.”

“Well, it hasn’t,” I state firmly, placing my hand on Chloé’s and giving it a gentle squeeze. “Granted, I despise Schuldig more than ever, but, other than that…” Trailing off, I shrug and entwine my fingers with Chloé’s. “Other than that things are pretty much exactly as they were. Sure, I would have liked to have heard it from you before now but I understand why you couldn’t and don’t hold it against you. As for the concept of quid pro quo, that too, given that I still don’t know what ever possessed me to dump all my secrets on you, is something I’m willing to overlook. In fact, and I’m hoping you feel the same way, I’m prepared to just accept, adapt, and move on. So, what do you say, huh?”

“What I say is that although I think you’re being too forgiving and that I don’t deserve your understanding and kindness, you’re nonetheless right in that we should move on,” Chloé murmurs, smiling grimly as he turns to face me. “So, with heartfelt thanks, I say yes, let’s move on and simply get on with things.”

“To share a quote from Yohji that I’ve lost count of the times he’s seen fit to hit me with, I don’t want to hear any ‘deserving’ song and dance from you,” I reply, silently breathing a huge sigh of relief that, for now at least, it seems as though I’ve managed to get through to Chloé. “God alone knows it’s becoming more and more apparent that we, if we *must* make use of this term, deserve each other and, well, I think we should just leave it at that.” Pausing, I give a curt nod to reiterate my point and, once Chloé has reluctantly shrugged his acceptance, decide the time has come to move the conversation in a different, hopefully less confrontational, direction. “Now, seeing as we clearly need something new to talk about, how are things between you and Faith?”

“As changes in topic go,” Chloé mutters, rolling his eyes, “simply moving onto Faith, as far as I’m concerned anyway, leaves a lot to be desired. I understand that you’ve probably got a lot of questions you’re just dying to ask me but, come on, how about giving me a bit of a break? Not to mention, and here’s an odd idea for you, how about possibly answering a few questions yourself…”

“If you want to ask me something then go ahead and ask it,” I reply, fixing Chloé with my very best impression of an open and innocent looking expression. “Before you do though, you don’t have to bother with asking how I’m feeling as, trust me, I’m fine. I’m still taking the cold and flu pills, so they’re keeping the Godforsaken cold under control, I slept remarkably well last night, and, yeah, I’m as good as to be expected.”

“And, reading through the lines there, what you’re really saying is that you’re as much in denial about yesterday as I am,” Chloé responds, giving me the sort of look that tells me I’m not fooling him for a second with my airy declarations of health and well being. “Come on, Aya. Play nice. While I know I’ve got a nerve saying this, you don’t have to hide anything from me.”

“I’m not hiding anything from you,” I retort, holding my outstretched palms towards Chloé in a ‘trust me, would I lie to you?’ gesture. “Hell, compared to both you and Ken I managed to make it through Schuldig’s show unscathed. It was… embarrassing… and God knows I wish it had never happened, but, well, it did and life goes on. It’s not as though I was injured or anything.”

“But… The man in the Rolls Royce, didn’t he look like…”

“Yeah, he looked like him,” I interrupt, scowling not at Chloé but at the unwanted memory of Kimura’s doppelganger gliding towards me that suddenly assails me. “It wasn’t though, it *can’t* have been, so what of it? Kimura’s dead and for all we know that guy was just lackey that Schuldig’s made to look like solely for the purpose of messing with my head. Whoever he is though, I’m not bothered by him.”

“You say you’re not bothered by him,” Chloé murmurs, his blue eyes watching me closely from beneath his fringe, “but I heard what Schuldig said and…”

“I’ll die before I ever let anyone touch me like that again!” I exclaim, sinking back in my chair, the vehemence in my outburst surprising me as much as, going by the look on his face, it does Chloé. “I… I don’t care who he is or what it is that Schuldig’s got planned but, as there’s no way it’s going to happen, it’s not something I wish to talk about. Chloé… Please… Just let it go. I’m fine. Nothing happened and nothing’s going to happen.”

“I still think you’re in denial though and…” Stopping himself, Chloé sighs and smiles softly. “Okay. I’ll allow you to think you’ve convinced me that everything is just wonderful if you grant me the same dispensation. So, what do you say? Truce?”

“Truce,” I agree, my mind lingering on Chloé’s use of the word denial and hating that he was right to use it. Schuldig all but molested me, there’s some man out there running around thinking he’s Kimura, and, yes, I’m in denial about both of these facts. I’m also, while I’m busily deluding myself that things aren’t unraveling at the seams, refusing to think in any detail about what happened to Chloé and what exactly it was that compelled Yohji to feel as though he had to protect me by staying away. I know I can’t avoid having to deal with these things for ever but for now at least I’m more than content to just let them slide. All I have to do is keep busy and avoid being on my own and I’ll be fine.

“Seeing as I’m so relieved you agreed, I’ll even force myself to talk about Faith now by way of thanks,” Chloé states lightly, pulling his gloves back on as, no doubt assuring himself that I’m dressed warmly enough, his gaze flicks over me from head to toe. “Although I’m still annoyed at his sneaky, underhanded behavior, he’s managed to convince me that his reasons for skulking around were valid and that he never meant any harm or slight on our ability by it. I still think he could have let us know that Rosary were here monitoring the situation and I *definitely* think we should have been told that they’d been the ones to come across you in the cemetery, but… Well… Not only do I find it impossible to stay angry at Faith but I’m so grateful for him getting to the workshop when he did last night that I’m prepared to forgive him for just about anything and everything.”

“Mmm… It was pretty good,” I murmur, holding back on adding that it would have actually been better if he’d gotten there hours earlier to protect Chloé as I know there’d be nothing to be gained by stating something so obvious. “Speaking of Faith, and, don’t worry, I’m not going to cross examine you on your relationship and everything you spoke about this morning, where is he? I know Free and Jin are sleeping because they spent all night on the computers, but I would have thought Faith would have been up by now.”

Pushing the sleeve of his coat back, Chloé glances at his watch before lifting his head and giving the house a worried look. “With any luck he’ll be up shortly,” he replies softly, pulling his sleeve back down and fastidiously smoothing it over the top of his glove. “Faith, despite Rosenkrus’ belief that he’s the ultimate psionic in that his gifts are the most powerful and faultless they’ve ever encountered, gets terrible migraines when he either puts too much strain on his powers or he finds himself surrounded by people who, emotionally, he can’t distance himself from.”

“So, to put it bluntly, what you’re saying is that we’ve given him one hell of a headache and that he’s still sleeping it off,” I reply, leaning forward and watching Chloé closely in case he decides now is as good a time as any to lapse back into his well honed skill of avoiding the matter at hand. While my interest in Faith is predominantly based in the realms of idle curiosity, I nonetheless want Chloé to be nothing less than totally honest about him as I need to know that, yes, he does actually trust me. If he doesn’t then… well… I’ve got a problem even if he doesn’t.

“While succinct, that’s a good way of putting it,” Chloé responds, a slight frown marring his features as he meets my gaze. “The events at the garage coupled with everyone’s down and out moods have just taken a bit out of him, that’s all. He should be fine when he gets up though as not only have moods improved but he’s also had time to adapt and acclimatize to everyone. Oh, and don’t even think about trying to blame yourself for any of it as it’s simply how Faith is. The migraines come part and parcel with his powers and he’s used to them.”

“And migraines are such a lovely thing to get used to too,” I reply drily, screwing my nose up in distaste at the thought of a so-called ‘gift’ that constantly sees you laid up in bed. “He’ll be okay though, yeah? Without wanting to sound like I’m planning to kick him while he’s down, I think it’s now hideously clear that we need him and if he’s going to be out of the equation then we probably should know about it.”

“Whether he’s well or not, should we need him, he’ll be there,” Chloé states matter-of-factly as, breaking the staring contest, he glances back towards the fire. “You don’t have to worry about Faith, Aya, as he’ll be fine. He was well enough this morning to convince me that he’d had good reasons for everything that he’d done so I’m positive that by the time he gets up he’ll be back to normal. Now, surely it’s time for another change in conversation topic, yes?”

“Like what, for example?” I murmur, the idea of continuing to pester Chloé with questions -- Why are you out here and not with Faith? How does it feel being around Rosary again? Do you wish you were still a part of them? -- being quickly trampled by the acceptance that it’s probably better if I just quit while I’m ahead, I follow his lead and look across at the fire. “If you’ve got anything in mind then, go for it.”

“We could always just sit here in silence,” Chloé replies, wincing as he shifts position in his chair. “How does that sound?”

“Like it’s never going to happen,” I respond, reaching over and placing my hand on his arm. “Hey, are you okay? Do you want to go inside or…”

“I’m fine,” Chloé interrupts quietly, hanging his head and once again staring down at the tabletop. “Just a little… sore… That’s all.”

“Oh.” At a complete loss as to what to say next -- and the token fallback of ‘sorry’ doesn’t go anywhere near cutting it -- I fall silent and, seeing Yohji walk across the bridge to the patio, very nearly cheer out loud in relief. Yes! Saved!

“Well, if it isn’t my favorite redhead and my favorite blond,” Yohji states happily, bounding onto the patio and making a beeline for me as Chloé seems to shrink in on himself. “What’s up?” he adds, planting a nicotine and marshmallow scented kiss on my cheek before standing back and giving me a querying look. 

“What’s up is that your mouth isn’t going anywhere near me again until you’ve cleaned your teeth,” I mutter, giving the minutest of shrugs in response to his look. “Other than that…”

“Other than that it looks to me like you’ve done something to upset Chloé,” Yohji finishes lightly, wagging his finger at me disapprovingly as he walks over to stand behind Chloé. “Whatever it is he’s said to you,” he continues, casually draping himself over Chloé’s shoulders, “you’re just to ignore it and think happy thoughts. I’m here now and I promise to protect you from bullies such as Aya there, so, c’mon, you need cheer up.”

“Aya d-didn’t say a-anything to me,” Chloé stammers, trying to get up but failing because of Yohji’s weight pressing down on him. “I… Now that you’ve finished with the fire, I… I should go, leave the pair of you alone…”

“Nonsense,” Yohji replies, resting his cheek against Chloé’s and smiling across at me. “Besides, you were here first.”

“I… I should go,” Chloé repeats, the strange position he’s suddenly found himself in causing his eyes to widen in what I hope has more to do with surprise than outright panic. “Yohji…”

“How about I change it to admitting that I want you to stay, would that help?” Yohji murmurs, still smiling as he makes no move to lift himself away from Chloé. “In fact, and this is the whole truth and nothing but the truth here, I came over because I wanted to be with you both anyway.” Pausing, he winks at me as, with a sigh, Chloé accepts defeat and visibly relaxes. “It, you know, reminds me of last night…”

“Pervert,” I mutter, having to look away because -- for reasons I don’t care to think about -- the sight of Yohji and Chloé so close together is doing odd, pleasantly peculiar things to the pit of my stomach. Not that it’s something I’m exactly going to volunteer, with their contrasting blond hair and different skin tones, they look good together. *Very* good even. And… Yeah… Let’s just not go there. “While I’m confident I’ve told you this before, you’ve got a one track mind, one that’s going to get you into trouble one of these days.”

“Trouble?” Yohji smiles, straightening himself up but keeping his hands closed around Chloé’s shoulders. “Pah. I live for trouble. Well, that, along with cigarettes and beer and…”

“And let’s not forget the nonstop enjoyment you derive from the sound of your own voice,” Ken interjects, walking onto the patio and slumping down in one of the free chairs. “Oh man, do I not feel well,” he groans, slumping inelegantly back in his chair and clutching his stomach. 

“Seeing as it’s self inflicted, please don’t tell me you’re actually expecting *sympathy*?” I murmur, glancing at Ken and shaking my head in disbelief. “If so, you can forget it. No one forced you to eat those marshmallows and, well, if you don’t know when to stop I fail to see why I should care that you’re now suffering the consequences.”

“That’s what I love about you, Aya,” Ken pouts, rubbing his belly. “You’re just so kind and sympathetic. Now, if you were *really* my friend you’d offer to go get me something to soothe my stomach.”

“As much as I don’t want to appear as though I’m taking sides, Aya’s got a point,” Yohji smirks, his hands, I suspect unconsciously, gently massaging Chloé’s shoulders. “Let’s face it, while I’m slightly more sympathetic to your plight than he is, it’s not as though you *had* to finish the pack…”

“You both suck, you know that, don’t you?” Ken scowls, making puppy dog -- ‘I’m sick, look after me’ -- eyes at Chloé in a last ditch attempt to find someone who actually cares about his predicament. “Chloé…”

“Don’t even dream of asking Chloé to play nurse for you as he’s not going anywhere,” Yohji states, laughing as Ken shoots him a miffed, petulant look. “Hell, if you’re so desperate you can always go get it yourself.”

“Do one of you want something from inside?” Finlay queries, joining us on the patio and pausing by the table. “If so, just let me know what and *where* it is and I’d be happy to get it from you. I’m going in there to get a Coke anyway.”

“Mmm… Coke. That’d do,” Ken replies, visibly brightening as the thought of washing down far too many marshmallows with a fizzy soft drink strikes him -- mistakenly -- as a good one. “If you’re sure you don’t mind, I’d love a Coke.”

“You, Ken, are a dietician’s worse nightmare,” I comment, glancing at Chloé and hurriedly suppressing a laugh at the disgusted look on his face. “Marshmallows, Coke… Do you have *any* idea how bad that crap is for you?”

“I know,” Ken retorts, pushing the chair back and propping his feet up on the table. “The thing is though, I just don’t care.”

“When your cholesterol levels see you in your grave by the time you’re thirty, I’ll have that engraved on your tombstone, shall I?” I reply, shaking my head and effecting a solemn expression. “Here lies Hidaka Ken. He Didn’t Care. Sound good to you, huh?”

“At the risk of wanting to interrupt your ever-so-cheery and heart warming argument here,” Finlay interjects, starting to walk towards the sliding door, “does anyone else want anything from inside?”

“I’ve got my smokes, so I’m fine,” Yohji replies, taking his hand off Chloé’s shoulder just long enough to pat his pocket before, almost as though he’s afraid Chloé might attempt to escape, promptly putting it straight back again. “Aya, Chloé, what about you?”

“I don’t need anything, thank you,” Chloé murmurs, giving me a bemused look as he settles back in his seat.

“I’m fine too, thanks,” I mutter, answering Chloé’s unvoiced -- ‘and what exactly is going on here?’ -- question with a shrug before swiveling around and watching Finlay walk into the house. He’s barely through the door when Free appears in the doorway and walks out onto the patio, his face an unreadable mask.

“I am glad I have found you all together,” Free states, his eyes giving away nothing -- if indeed he’s even formed an opinion about it -- of what he thinks about Yohji’s over-familiar hold on Chloé as he comes over to stand alongside Ken. “Singapura just phoned to say she would be here within the hour and that information has come to light which will see us having to move to take down Infinity tonight.”

=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=


	8. Chapter 8

~ Yohji ~

Picking up the ashtray on my way across the patio, I carry it out onto the bridge and place it on the railing next to Chloé’s elbow. “Hey, you can always say no,” I murmur, lighting a smoke as Chloé looks up from the pond and glances at me. 

“I could,” Chloé sighs, holding his hand out for the cigarette and shrugging, “but I’m not going to.”

“Oddly enough, that’s what I thought you’d say,” I reply, handing him the smoke and lighting another before slipping both the lighter and the cigarette pack back in to my pocket. “Well, cheers. Here’s to everything going smoothly tonight.”

“While I’ve never heard of anyone using cigarettes to toast with before, yes, here’s to everything going smoothly tonight,” Chloé responds, making a toasting gesture with his cigarette before bringing it to his mouth and taking a drag. “Thanks, by the way,” he adds, returning to his position of leaning on the bridge’s railing. “If you’ve got places you’d rather be though, then, please, go. You don’t have to stay with me and if Aya happened to say anything to contrary, well, he’s wrong.”

“I want to smoke and in order to smoke I have to be outside,” I mutter, shrugging casually as I join Chloé in leaning on the railing. “The fact that you’re outside as well is just an added bonus.”

“Mmm… And some bonus I make too,” Chloé replies flatly, taking another drag on his smoke and returning his gaze to the pond. 

“Whether you believe it or not, having you here is definitely a bonus as far as I’m concerned,” I retort, making the snap decision that the time has once again come to take the route of tactile reassurance and slinging my arm loosely around Chloé’s slumped shoulders. “So, come on, Chloé-kins. Cheer up.”

“Cheer up?” Chloé echoes with a dry snort, his eyes still fixed on the pond. “Oh God… What a nice thought.” Pausing, he looks up and offers me a weak, forced smile. “Sorry. I’m just… tired… and… Okay. I’m also incredibly annoyed at myself for having so effortlessly fallen into Schuldig’s trap and literally can not believe how gullible I was. So, there… There you have it.”

“Annoyed, I can live with,” I mutter, keeping my arm around Chloé’s shoulders and, taking the fact he’s making no attempt to pull away as a positive one, hugging him against me. “What I won’t hear for a second however is you blaming yourself. Having been there and done that for myself just recently, you’ve just got to take my word on it that it’s something you really want to steer clear of at all costs.”

“I should have been more careful,” Chloé whispers, shaking his head, his blue eyes worried. “Get this, although he certainly looked like him, I knew the man in the car wasn’t really Faith but… but do you think that stopped me from blithely going over? Why, no. Of course not. I reacted just as Schuldig knew I would. I took one look, and like a complete idiot, walked into a trap. And, Goddamn it, if that isn’t enough of a reason to be annoyed with myself then I don’t know what is.”

“And again I say ‘annoyed’ I can live with,” I reply softly, taking another drag on my cigarette and watching the smoke disappear into the crisp, still air. “But, and there’s absolutely no argument you can try that will make me think any differently, that’s it. You’re not to blame yourself for anything that happened and, that, really, is all I care to say on the topic. Come on. As it’s been so succinctly pointed out to me, we’re already in deep enough shit without retreating into our corners and indulging in a spot of self-flagellation.”

“From someone who’s been playing the role of Mr Solitary for the better part of four days, you’ve sure changed your tune,” Chloé murmurs, looking at me closely as what I take to be a genuine smile lights up his face. “What’s more, I’m glad to see it and hope that it’s not just an act you feel as though you have to be putting on for everyone else’s benefit.”

“It’s not an act,” I respond, stubbing my smoke out before tracing a cross over my heart. “Cross my heart and hope to die and all that. While I mightn’t be *wonderful*, I’m still a lot better than I was and, yeah, it’s definitely for real. We’re all alive, your old pals, Rosary, are somehow going to help us kick Infinity butt and…” Trailing off, I give a small, nonchalant shrug and wink at Chloé. “Besides, given how well I slept last night, how could I possibly be anything *other* than good?”

“I…” A faint pink flush that could either indicate embarrassment or uncertainty staining his cheeks, Chloé looks away and concentrates on finishing his smoke. “I don’t know what to say other than I’m sorry if my presence made you feel uncomfortable,” he whispers, extinguishing his cigarette butt in the ashtray and gently pulling away from me. “It… It was never my intention to come between you and Aya and I apologize if that’s the impression you are getting.”

“There’s nothing to apologize for as I’m getting no such impression,” I reply, Aya’s last words to me -- “Be careful with what you say to Chloé at the moment as he’s very likely to take things the wrong way.” -- as I left the living room ringing in my ears. Although my comment was meant teasingly I honestly should have thought before saying it and just kept it to myself. “God, Chloé, if anyone should apologize then it’s me for just opening my fool mouth without thinking. Besides, if you think about it, you can hardly come between me and Aya when, well, you know, he was the one in the middle…”

“But…”

“Uh-uh,” I interrupt, standing up straight and silencing Chloé with what I hope passes for a firm, no-nonsense look. “No buts. Assuming you actually slept well and *aren’t* feeling all righteously offended by last night’s sleeping arrangements, I say we just accept that it happened and don’t make a big deal of it. Now, before you ask though, *no*, I wasn’t bothered by it and, *no*, unlike Ken I don’t happen to think you’re out to steal Aya from me. I also think that as far as working in everyone’s best interests go it pretty much worked a treat.”

“If I ever find out that you’re just saying these things to humor me I swear I’ll never forgive you,” Chloé mutters, glancing at me with what I read to be open curiosity in his eyes. “If, however, you are genuinely speaking the truth then I thank you and want you to know that I feel honored to call you a friend. You’re very kind and understanding, Yohji, and I know now why Aya thinks so highly of you.”

Embarrassed by Chloé’s -- undeserved, I might add -- praise, I snort dismissively and return my gaze to the pond. “Well, it’s genuine, okay,” I murmur, watching a goldfish come up to the surface before quickly, no doubt after taking one look at me, disappearing back out of sight. “You’re our friend and I know I’m speaking for Aya here too when I say that we’d do anything for you. What I also know is that you’d do the same for us. Now, if you *really* want to continue this conversation I think, seeing as he needs to be a part of it too, I should go and get Aya, don’t you?”

“Er… That’s fine,” Chloé replies hurriedly, the expression on his face telling me that he thinks as much of the idea of having this conversation with Aya as I do. “Aya, I’m confident, should be left where he is.”

“Seeing as he’s sitting -- sulking, of course -- on the sofa with Ken hovering over him, I’m not exactly sure he’d agree,” I smile, relieved at having so effectively and effortlessly changed the topic. “He wanted to come back out, actually, but Ken wouldn’t have a bar of it. He, Ken, this is, even went so far as to threaten to sit on him if he so much as budged from the sofa.”

“We never should have allowed him to stay outside for as long as we did,” Chloé murmurs, glancing across at the house and sighing. “He’s not admitting it, and we might be trying to ignore it, but he’s still sick and should really be still in bed. The fact that he’s still having those coughing fits isn’t good at all.”

“And, despite the fact that I agree with you, you know as well as I do that we’d have a better chance of winning the lotto than we would of getting Aya to stay in bed,” I respond, rolling my eyes. “He should, uh-huh, absolutely, but he won’t and there’s not a damn thing we can do about it short of strapping him down which… well… I’m sure is something neither of us would even joke about doing to him.”

“Nor would we be reacting any differently if we were in his place,” Chloé replies, brushing imaginary ash off his coat before folding his arms across his chest and hugging himself in an attempt to ward off the cold. “We’re all suffering but, regardless of what it might take out of us, we’ll all be there tonight. It’s just how it is.”

“Wherever ‘there’ may be,” I mutter, glancing at my watch and seeing that Singapura’s already missed her estimated time of arrival. “Do… Do you think we’ll be up to whatever it is we’ll be facing?” I query hesitantly, hoping that Sing hasn’t ran into any trouble. “I know we’ve got determination on our side, but…”

“We’ll have to be up to it,” Chloé interrupts quietly. “If we want it to end then we just have to be and that’s all there is to it. Ignoring the hideously personal nature, this is, after all, what we do. It’s also, and this is something you’re to both take pride in and never forget, what we do both extremely well and with considerable success.”

“If you put it *that* way,” I murmur, choosing to skip the small fact that I can’t actually recall any of my past ‘missions’ and that whatever happens tonight is going to be something entirely new to me. Sure, I’ve had the training and I’m more than content to do simply as I’m told, but, still…

“You’ll be fine,” Chloé comments, unfolding his arms and closing his hand around my shoulder. “Trust me. You’re as ready for what’s coming as any of us are.”

“You reading me again?” I mutter, giving Chloé a querying look and, not for the first time, idly wishing my mind was as capable of being as locked off as Aya’s is. God knows it would have to be preferable to simply being an open book for passing telepaths.

“No,” Chloé murmurs, glancing across at the patio and, lifting his hand away from my shoulder, waving a greeting at someone. “My head is in such a mess at the moment that it can barely deal with my own thoughts,” he continues with a wry smile. “I know you though and I know what you would have been thinking. Let me assure you, and I think this should help your confidence levels, that you’re only here because we believe in your abilities. If we didn’t think you were up to the task yet then you’d be on cat-sitting duty with Yuki and Michel in Switzerland.”

“Great,” I groan, turning around in time to watch Ken come to a stop by the edge of the bridge. “Now I *really* feel all warm, wanted, and fuzzy.”

“Sing’s here,” Ken calls out, waiting until he’s confident that I’m looking at him before turning around and heading straight back inside. “She says you’ve got ten minutes to get your nicotine levels high enough to get you through the briefing before getting your butt into the conference room.”

“Sounds like a plan to me,” I shout back, giving Ken’s back a mock Nazi salute and laughing as, almost as though he was expecting it, he spins around and flips me the bird.

“Either be there or Sing will have your balls,” Ken retorts, shrugging as he continues towards the patio. “It’s your choice. Having seen the mood she’s in though, if I were you I wouldn’t want to do anything to piss her off.” 

“I’ll be as good as gold. Promise,” I respond, pulling my smokes out of my pocket and offering the pack to Chloé. “Up for another one before class is called?”

“While I could certainly do with one, I think my time would be better spent seeing if Faith’s up yet,” Chloé replies, staring longingly at the cigarettes for a moment before wrapping his arms around me and giving me a brusque hug. “In case I forget or don’t get another chance,” he murmurs thickly, “I just want to thank you.”

“Thank me?” I mutter, clumsily returning the embrace and hoping like crazy that I’m not hurting him. “Get over it, Chloé. You don’t have to thank me for anything.”

“Yes I do,” Chloé responds, releasing me and taking a step backwards. “I want to thank you for both not asking whether I’m okay and… and simply for being so understanding. It… It means a lot to me.”

“Just because I haven’t asked doesn’t mean I’m not concerned,” I reply, touched by Chloé’s gratitude and wishing I’d consciously done more to deserve it. “You know that, don’t you?”

“I know that, yes,” Chloé murmurs, trailing his gloved fingers along my shoulders as he begins to walk across the bridge to the patio. “I also want you to know that if there’s anything you ever need from me that I’ll do my best to ensure you get it. Now, you make sure to keep an eye on the time as I’m sure Ken would just love to live up to his threat of sending Singapura out to get you.”

“I’ll be in straight after I’ve had my smoke,” I respond, lighting my cigarette and, with a sigh, leaning my back up against the railing. Once Chloé is inside I turn around and, because the position is so oddly comfortable, return to leaning over the railing and staring out across the pond.

Whether Chloé, or Aya either for that matter, believes me, I am actually feeling curiously good and hopeful about things. I *shouldn’t* be, given the events of yesterday and the fact that we’ve unexpectedly got to move against Infinity tonight, but, go figure, I just am. Asuka’s still dead, Aya and Chloé are still having to deal with having been taken to a place they’d hoped never to see again, Infinity and Schwarz are still calling the shots, Keegan’s still an obnoxious asshole, and, yeah, all of those minor, you know, inconsequential type things aside, I’m feeling pretty okay.

Again. Go figure.

If anything our circumstances are even more dire than they were yesterday and here I am -- metaphorically cracking open the champagne -- better late than never, deciding that now is a good time to become a disciple of the ‘always look on the bright side of life’ brigade. Aya and Chloé are dealing with what happened to them as well as possibly could be expected, and while Keegan’s a prick, he is at least a prick attached to a very powerful and much needed team. What’s more, thankfully Keegan’s the only bad egg in Rosary as the rest of them seem perfectly okay. Having spent a quaintly enjoyable three or so hours trawling through some truly disgusting sex shops with him last night, I can even say that I already consider Finlay as -- a friend -- someone I feel comfortable with.

So, yeah… Things might still suck, but so what? I’m alive, my friends (*family*) are alive and…

And there’s only so much of being miserable I can take.

Boo-hoo. My life sucks. I have nothing. Nothing to give, nothing to lose. Doom and gloom. Misery. Hate. Doubt. Everything’s my fault. Worthless. Meaningless. Useless.

Nobody loves me, everybody hates me, I think I’ll eat some worms. Isn’t that how the song goes?

Whatever. It’s all bullshit. Capital ‘B’ Bullshit.

I didn’t kill Asuka anymore than I conspired with Schuldig about all but delivering Chloé to him. Nor is it my fault that Aya’s had such an… eventful… time since arriving in Tokyo. While I’m at it, now that I’m allowing myself to think about it clearly, Omi’s abduction can’t really be blamed on me either. I’m not saying that I’m deluded enough to think I’ve been entirely absolved of my sense of guilt as I *know* I could have gone about some things differently but, on the simplest of bases, things *aren’t* actually as shit awful as I’ve been busily making them out to be. Yes, I should have told Aya about Asuka, and yes, I definitely shouldn’t have let Chloé go off by himself yesterday, but…

What’s done is done and I can’t undo it any more that I can mutter an incantation under my breath that would turn all the insignificant goldfish in the pond into Koi. What I can do, however, is stop -- throwing reality into the too hard basket and burying my head under a rock -- wallowing in self pity and to make a concentrated effort to put things behind me and to move forward.

Hiding behind a self-protective wall doesn’t help. Nor does simply wishing things were different. While these things *should* be obvious to anyone with half a brain, they’ve only just permeated my thick skull and I now realize that, to put it bluntly, one just has to *cope*. Life isn’t all peaches and cream and, whether you want to or not, you’ve just got to take the bad with the good. And, while this week might be deplorable, it doesn’t mean that your life sucks. Despite having taken the horrible events of yesterday to finally bring it home to me, I know now that, all in all, I’m pretty damn lucky.

Lucky, *and* a fighter.

Fight to protect, fight to avenge, fight to *live*.

If I had the time I’d even consider having it -- my new motto -- tattooed somewhere on my body as it’s not something I ever want to forget again.

So, once again, yeah… I’m feeling better than I have in days. No nightmares interrupted my sleep, Aya *doesn’t* hate me, the bonfire and Finlay’s marshmallows worked perfectly to divert my attention from the fact that across Tokyo Asuka’s funeral service was being held without me, Chloé *didn’t* -- one way or the other -- react badly to last night’s… unique… sleeping arrangement, and…

And, well, nor did anyone for that matter. Aya made the offer. I accepted because, really, I didn’t want to leave him and, with no fanfare or ulterior motives whatsoever, we simply slept together. Innocence and comfort and love and relief all rolled up in one warm and cozy package. While, granted, sharing a bed with Aya and Chloé was just about the last place I ever thought I’d find myself, it was nice. Very nice.

It was also something I wouldn’t say no to maybe one night repeating.

Who knows, perhaps I am being too magnanimous and perhaps Ken’s been right all along and I should be doing the whole proprietary -- mine, mine, *all* mine -- thing in respect to Aya, but, seeing as things appear to be working just fine exactly as they are, it would be dishonest of me to say I resent Aya’s and Chloé’s closeness. I just can’t. I might *want* to, because the self-possessed and proprietary part of me says it’s the right and *expected* thing for me to do, but I can’t. They’re friends and they’re so comfortable with each other that to pitch a jealous fit would just seem petty, wrong and just that little bit offensive to all parties, myself included, concerned. 

Besides, and where this fits into things is anyone’s guess, I *like* Chloé. A lot. Unlike my intricate and tangled relationship with Aya, his friendship and acceptance isn’t weighted down by a past that I can’t remember and, while it might seem like something minor, possibly even pointless, it actually means quite a lot to me. I also enjoy spending time with him and -- whether this is purely selfish of me or not isn’t something I really care about -- don’t want to imagine what life would be like if, for whatever reason, he was no longer around.

While, again, perhaps I should be, I’m not even the remotest bit jealous of the time he and Aya spend together. I mean, hell, it works for everyone concerned. Given that not once have I ever got the impression that they’re either trying to shut me out or conspiring against me, really, there’s not a damn thing about any aspect of their relationship that I could genuinely get my boxers in a knot over. It’s not, after all, as though they’re carrying on a secret affair behind my back. Nor is it as though I feel *threatened* by their closeness. They talk, touch, and behave like lovers, yeah, but I know that at any given time, if I felt the urge to, I could butt into their conversation or their time together and they’d just let me. I could also, I suspect, if I had a mind to, put my foot down about the amount of time they spend together and both would immediately try to placate me. Chloé would back away from Aya, Aya would either force himself to spend more time with me or, if that was too obvious for him, he’d find something else to busy himself with, and, ultimately, no one would be as content as they’d been before I decided to open my mouth and whine. 

As things stand now though, they work and they work well. Chloé was there for Aya while I was avoiding him, Aya, despite swearing and declaring that it’s not his forte, always makes a point of doing whatever he can to help Chloé and, should I ever need them, I know that both of them will be there for me. In return, my behavior and attitude during this shitty week aside, I like to think that they know they can rely on me to help them in any way that I can. If it’s not clear then, when tonight’s been and gone and we’re back in London, I’m going to sit them down and spell it out so that *I* know that they know. It might only be a small thing but I know I’ll feel better for having done it.

A quick glance at my watch telling me that my ten minutes are almost up, I finish my smoke and, picking it up from the railing, carry the ashtray back onto the patio. Placing it on the table, I rub my hands on my jeans in a not exactly hygienic, or, for that matter, effective, attempt to wipe them clean and wander inside. Finding no one in the living room, I hope that I’m not going to be the last one to the meeting and, eschewing hitting a bathroom in order to do a better job on my marshmallow and nicotine stained hands, quickly make my way to the conference room. 

Finding the door open, I step into the room and, all the time mentally praying that I’m not late, cautiously look along the length of the highly polished and slightly imposing looking conference table. To my heartfelt relief, apart from Singapura, who has her laptop hooked up to a projector and who’s at her customary position at the head of the table, only Ken, Free, and Jin have beat me to the room and, sinking down in the seat next to Ken, I find it quite impossible to stop a small, smug smile tugging on my lips. Ha. Go me. Despite having paid no attention to the time whatsoever I’m still not the last and, small things admittedly impressing small minds, I have to say this makes me feel somewhat pleased with myself.

“I’d ask what you’re sitting there smirking about,” Sing murmurs, tapping her finger on her watch and scowling, “but that would denote that I’ve got time to care.”

“Do you want me to go and chase everyone up?” Ken queries with what can only be described as an unnatural amount of enthusiasm as, his marshmallow induced stomach upset clearly already a thing of the past, he pushes his chair back and makes to stand up. “Just say the word and I can *guarantee* you that I’ll get ‘em here within a minute.”

“Ah, but can you guarantee to do this without threatening them with physical harm?” I murmur, smiling at Ken as I lean back in my chair and stretch. 

“What’s a small threat here and there between friends?” Ken retorts, settling himself back in his seat as, grinning brightly, Finlay ambles into the room and takes the seat opposite mine.

“Everyone can relax now as I’m here,” he comments, his eyes giving Sing a patently interested once over and smiling appreciatively. “Hey. We finally meet in person.”

“Indeed,” Singapura mutters, the curtness of her response having, I think, more to do with the reason she’s here and what it is she has to share with us than with Finlay’s mild flirting. “Shit! What’s keeping everyone else? Free, I thought you said they were all up and capable of attending this…”

“I apologize if we have kept you waiting,” Faith interrupts smoothly, walking into the conference room and pausing directly behind Free’s seat at the end of the table. “Time simply got away from us and, again, I apologize for having kept you all waiting,” he adds, glancing at what I see is a half completed tarot reading laid out on the table in front of Free before stepping aside and looking down the table as both Aya and Chloé walk through the door. 

Under the harsh, unforgiving fluorescent light that the American interior designers saw fit to inflict on the conference room -- all the better for reading the small print on contracts and treaties, anyone? -- all three look pale and plainly unwell. Unlike Aya who, in anticipation of the hook up we’re going to have with Yuki and Michel later in the afternoon, is wearing a brown suede jacket over a white shirt, Chloé’s dressed in all black and, because of it, he in particular looks the most tired and drawn. I hadn’t noticed it so much outside, possibly because the cold air would have been bringing some much needed color to his cheeks, but there’s no escaping the fact that he’s in need of both rest and lots of TLC.

Neither of which, going by the serious expression on Sing’s face, anyone’s going to be able to offer him any time soon.

Catching my eyes on him, Chloé half smiles a greeting before, after a moment’s hesitation, seating himself in the chair opposite Jin. This leaves a seat free between Chloé and me that Aya, after giving Singapura a speculative look, takes. Settling himself, he places his pack of never-go-anywhere-without-them cough lozenges on the table and sighs softly.

“Pleased you could make it,” I murmur quietly, placing my hand on Aya’s knee and giving it an unobtrusive squeeze under the cover of the table.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Aya mutters drily, ferreting out a lozenge from the pack and popping into his mouth as Faith seats himself between Jin and Finlay.

“You know, you’re going to turn into a blackcurrant if you keep sucking on those things for much longer,” Ken comments, reaching along the table and, I suppose, solely because he *can*, helping himself to a lozenge.

“Please, Ken, by all means have one of my lozenges,” Aya states, leaning forward and, with a snort that I take to indicate disbelief at Ken’s nerve, shaking his head. “With any luck it’ll react badly to all those marshmallows in your stomach.”

“Oh, I’m fine now,” Ken grins, placing the lozenge on his tongue and patting his stomach. “Thanks for asking, by the way.”

“One, two…” Trailing off, Singapura counts to nine on her fingers and gives one of the most heartfelt sighs I’ve ever heard. “Dear God, there’s going to be nine of you,” she murmurs, pulling a face. “*Nine*! That’s *nine* of you talking amongst yourselves and ignoring me when I’m trying to tell you something… It’s… Christ… It’s like a nightmare come true.”

“Or, depending on your point of view, a wonderfully pleasant dream,” Finlay interjects, smiling and looking amused at Sing’s melodramatic turn. “Come on, Singapura, look on the bright side. At least we’re *here* and you’re not having to round us up.”

“*Most* of you are here,” Sing corrects, glancing first at the empty seat opposite Ken and then at Faith. “Where’s Keegan? Seeing as I’m lacking both the time and the inclination to repeat myself, he needs to be here before I can start.”

“Where’s Keegan?” Finlay repeats, pushing back his chair and starting to stand up. “Why, probably still primping and preening himself in front of a mirror somewhere, of course. That’s where he usually is when he’s supposed to be at a meeting. If you just wait a tick I’ll go…”

“I *heard* that,” Keegan drawls, leaning against the doorframe and giving Finlay a decidedly unimpressed look. Dressed to offend in tight black leather pants and an equally as tight long-sleeved white t-shirt emblazoned with an iron on, glittery patch of a wide-eyed tabby kitten surrounded by red and pink roses that gives every indication of having come straight from a Victorian Era scrapbook, he looks just as he did last night - disinterested and as though there’s approximately a thousand and one places he’d rather be. Although I’d hoped never to see it again, around his neck he’s wearing the black patent leather choker with the diamond ankh that Schuldig placed on Aya last night.

“It’s good to know your hearing’s working just fine even if your ability to be on time isn’t,” Sing states coolly, gesturing at the empty chair. “Now, given that you’re already late, please come and sit down so I can begin.”

Pushing himself away from the doorframe, Keegan prowls -- and really, there’s just no other word for it -- into the room, his peeved expression worsening as he realizes where it is he’s going to have to sit. “Oh man, there’s like no way I’m sitting down the front in the geek seat,” he complains, coming to a stop behind Finlay and poking him in the back. “Come on, swap with me.”

“Nope. I’m perfectly comfortable where I am,” Finlay replies, swiveling around to bat Keegan’s hand away. “Besides, I was here first and, not only that, but I can play footsies with Yohji if I get bored.”

“Incidentally, watch who you’re calling a geek, Pop Princess,” Ken mutters, cracking the lozenge apart between his back teeth and chewing it as if it were gum as, his expression deliberately neutral, he looks Keegan up and down. “Nice outfit,” he adds snidely. “I’m sure it looked just as good on Britney.” 

“You’re a fine one to talk,” Keegan retorts, his eyes narrowing as, just on the off chance someone in the room might have missed it, he toys with the patent leather collar, drawing attention to it. “I mean, look at you sitting there in your tedious Adidas get up. Who do you think you are, David Beckham?”

“Mmm… Ken’s David Beckham and I’m the Wicked Witch of the East,” Singapura snaps, standing up and giving Keegan the sort of look that would scar a child for life. “Now, sit down and shut up before you *really* get on my bad side.”

“Sheesh. Who died and made you God?” Keegan mutters, throwing himself down in the chair. “There. Happy now?” he continues sulkily, his gaze falling on Aya as he continues to play with his choker. “Hey. Finders keepers.”

“I was actually thinking how well it suits you,” Aya replies politely, his true feelings on coming face to face with the collar again being hidden behind a well kept façade of indifference. “If you wish to keep it then, by all means, it’s yours.”

“Assuming you’ve all finished with your little fashion exposé,” Sing states, drumming her fingers on her laptop, “how about we get down to business, yes? I appreciate that it’s a novel idea but, well, it’s either that or you’re on your own as I’ve got better things to do with my time than simply standing here listening to rubbish.” 

“I’m confident that we’re all ready to listen now,” Faith responds quietly, shooting a warning look down the table to Keegan. “So, please, begin. I’m sure that you’ve got a lot to get through.”

Nodding her thanks to Faith, Sing shares an individual ‘look’ with each of us before, having reached the conclusion that we’re all suitably cowed and apologetic, taking a step back from the table and smiling grimly. “Very well,” she murmurs, “I have three things that I wish to say first and, once they are out of the way, then I will move on to the matter at hand.” Pausing, she gestures down the side of the table where Rosary are sitting. “Firstly, I would like to thank Rosary for both their immaculately timed assistance last night and for having agreed to remain a part of the team until Infinity have been defeated. While getting this involved was never part of the picture when they first agreed to help Kritiker collect information on Schwarz’s recent activities, their help thus far has proved to be invaluable and I know I speak for everyone here when I say how grateful we all are that they’re on our side.”

“Three cheers for Rosary,” Ken intones with a notable lack of enthusiasm, his gaze locked on Keegan as though he’s just waiting for an excuse to jump the table and attack him.

“Oh, the honor’s all ours,” Keegan retorts, looking along the table and all but sneering at Chloé. “I mean, it’s not often we get the chance to save an ex-team mate and his just as…”

“Keegan!” Faith interrupts, the red tinge appearing on his cheeks, I think, having as much to do with embarrassment at his younger brother’s behavior as it does anger. “That’s enough. If you haven’t got anything to say that’s actually relevant to why we’re here then, really, I think we’d all appreciate it if you’d just keep your mouth shut.”

“Go Faith,” Ken mutters, earning himself a glare from both Keegan and Singapura for his troubles. “Okay. Fine,” he adds hurriedly, pretending to run a zipper along his lips. “I’ll shut up too.”

“I should be so lucky,” Sing murmurs drily, shaking her head with a degree of fondness that’s lacking from her expression when she turns to look at Keegan. “Now, the second thing I have to say is this… I’m not going to ask how any of you are feeling because, short of having either bones or internal organs jutting out of your flesh, I simply don’t want to know. It’s not that I don’t care as, believe it or not, a small part of me actually does, but more that, needing you all to do your part tonight, I simply don’t want to know if you’re not up to it. In other words, yes, as far as I’m concerned ignorance is indeed bliss.”

“We’re… fine,” Chloé murmurs quietly, glancing quickly at Sing before returning his attention to the spot of table directly in front of him. “You tell us where to be and we’ll all be there.”

“Chloé’s right,” Aya states matter-of-factly, a fleeting expression of concern crossing his face as he looks over at his friend. “Regardless of how we’re feeling, we’ll do that which is asked of us to the best of our abilities. You know that, Singapura, as well as any of us.”

“I suppose that I do,” Singapura replies with a nod and a sad, almost resigned looking smile. “Moving now on to the last thing I want to say before getting in to it, thanks to Bengal and his dubious… sources… we have been able to locate both the publishing house and the distributor behind Schuldig’s foray into the world of X-rated magazines. While we all know it would be impossible to retrieve every copy that has made it into circulation, we are nonetheless doing our best to get our hands on as many copies as we can and Bengal has a number of his best men working on it around the clock.” 

Her opening statements completed, Singapura, without pausing to give anyone time to say anything, taps the touch pad on her laptop and brings up a flowchart on the bare wall behind her. “Now, these things out of the way, let’s proceed with why I’m really here,” Sing continues brusquely, stepping out of the projector’s light and pointing at the top of the chart. “As you can all see, this is a time line of events leading up to and including last night.”

“Whoa… Stop right there,” Ken exclaims, sitting up straight and banging his hands palm down on the table. “I know you want to get straight into things but there are two things that I want to ask you first. Two things that I feel we all deserve answers to.”

“Go on then,” Sing murmurs with a sigh of annoyance as, with another tap on the touch pad, the flowchart disappears. “Assuming they’re actual sensible questions that I stand a chance of being able to answer then, come on, cough ‘em up. Contrary to what I’m sure is popular belief, I don’t actually have all day and really do need to press ahead with everything that I’ve got to tell you.”

“Oh, trust me, they’re sensible,” Ken mutters, folding his arms across his chest and scowling at Singapura. “It’s ironic that you tell me to cough my questions up when really, answer wise, that’s exactly what I want you to do. Come on, Sing, why now, huh? Why are you here with your projector and your flowchart and your instructions when, the last time we saw you, you had nothing for us? What gives, eh? If you want us to believe a word you’re about to say then you owe it to us to give up your sources.” 

Pausing, Ken turns his scowl on Faith and sighs. “Don’t bother, incidentally, with giving us the ‘Rosary have been helping us all along’ story as that’s one of the few things we’ve been able to ascertain for ourselves,” he adds with just the slightest bit of animosity in his voice. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m as grateful for their assistance as anyone and blah, blah, freakin’ blah, but, still… Well, you know, it just would have been nice to know someone had our backs.”

Lowering his head to avoid the not entirely pleasant look Ken’s giving him, Faith’s only reply is to give a small apologetic shrug. Keegan, with an expression on his face that’s both sullen and stormy, opens his mouth to no doubt inform us that we should consider ourselves lucky that Rosary are even deigning to grace us with their presence but quickly shuts it again when he notices that the icy look Free is giving him is cold enough to turn the Mississippi River into a rock solid glacier. Jin, as usual, doesn’t say anything and continues staring steadfastly at the screen of his laptop. Even Finlay, who last night was garrulous to the point of hardly ever allowing me the opportunity to squeeze a comment in edgeways, remains silent.

While I agree with Ken that knowing both who Rosary were and that they were on our side would have been nice, I can’t find it in myself, all things considered, to bear a grudge against them. Really, it’s no more their fault that things have gone so fucking pear shaped than it is ours. They weren’t to know that, through their routine monitoring of Schuldig’s whereabouts, their courtesy report to Kritiker about his location would come to this. Nor were they to know that by deciding to come to Tokyo to keep a closer eye on Schuldig that they’d end up getting so thoroughly entwined in our mess. Basically, like Ken -- albeit somewhat glibly -- stated, I’m just grateful that they showed up when they did. God knows I wouldn’t have complained if they’d come earlier, or even if they’d seen fit to let at least Free know they were around, but, hey, they came and they saved the night. And, ultimately, questionably motives and personal histories and hurts aside, that’s all that really matters.

Well, that’s what I happen to think anyway. 

“Ken’s got a point,” Aya interjects softly, frowning, I suspect, at the incongruity of, for once, finding himself agreeing with Ken. “If a flood of information has suddenly come in then we’ve got a right to know where exactly it came from. I’m not saying that I doubt it or wish to verify it for myself, more that I would simply feel better knowing its source.”

“It’s *sources*, actually,” Singapura replies, taking a seat on the edge of her chair. “And, yes, I agree that you’ve got a right to know and was, in fact, going to get around to telling you if Ken hadn’t jumped in with the question first. Some, unfortunately, have been under our -- well, mine and Turk’s -- noses all along, while others came to light both late last night and early this morning. Now, while I’ll get to what Turk and I have discovered in due course as it has direct bearing on why it is we have to move tonight, what I can tell you here and now is that the bulk of the information has come courtesy of both Free and Jin’s hard work on the computers last night and, Aya, I’m sure you’ll be relieved to hear this, Crashers.”

“Crashers?” Aya repeats questioningly, his expression brightening at the mention of his old team. “Are they okay?”

“The email Pawn attached to the information was brief and to the point, but, yes, I believe that they are all fine,” Sing responds with a nod. “They got out of the motel just before it was attacked and have been doing their own thing, information gathering wise, since then. A note at the bottom of the email from Knight apologizes for their silence and explains that they weren’t sure that anyone from Kritiker was still standing and thought it would be for the best if they simply remained on their own until they had a better understanding of what was going on.”

“Do we know where they are currently?” Aya queries. “If things absolutely have to go down tonight then I’m sure we’d be able to do with their assistance.”

“Even if it’s just for them to indulge in their predilection for C4 and blowing things to shit,” Ken mutters drily, leaning forward and looking past me to smirk at Aya. “Hey. Come on and admit it. They’re a bunch of pyromaniacs with expensive tastes in toys.”

“They’ve already apologized for what happened at the Academy,” Aya sighs, referring to the school that ate my memory and gently reminding me of the part Crashers played in bringing it down -- literally -- on my head. “Besides, if their -- expensive toy -- helicopter hadn’t been kitted up as a mobile hospital you probably wouldn’t even be sitting here, so, really, I don’t think you’ve got any right to be maligning them.”

“Mmm… Looking at it that way, perhaps I’ll have to agree with you,” Ken replies, smiling as he unfolds his arms and pats me on the shoulder. “It’s okay,” he continues facetiously, “Aya’s right. It’s not as though Crashers *planned* to blow you up and totally fuck with your life. They just expected you to be quicker on your feet, that’s all.”

“That’s all,” I echo with a snort as, picking Ken’s hand up from my shoulder and dropping it on the table, I look across to Sing. “Hey, Sing, given that I’m suddenly thinking I’d quite like to meet these people, what’s your answer to Aya’s question? Are they in Tokyo or what?”

“While I’d love to be able to answer that and agree that we could definitely do with their help, I honestly don’t know where it is they are currently,” Singapura responds, shrugging. “Turk has verified that the email sent by Pawn is definitely legit but, still playing things cautiously I suspect, it doesn’t give anything away as to their actual whereabouts. Nor, apart from the usual coded channels, does it give any indication of how best to contact them.”

“That’d be right,” Aya murmurs, quickly popping another lozenge in his mouth as he chokes back a cough. “Knight is just being cautious and looking after his team. If they show, they show though and if they don’t, they don’t. As relieved as I am to know that they’re okay we can’t base our plans around them and, really, that’s all there is to it.” Leaning forward, Aya looks at Ken and gestures at Singapura. “Okay, seeing as I think she’s covered your first question well enough for the time being, what’s your second one?”

“My second one is about Omi,” Ken replies, his expression darkening and turning serious. “In case it’s happened to escape anyone’s attention, he’s been missing for six days now. *Six* whole days during which, and I’m just saying this, not pointing the finger of blame, we’ve managed to come up with a big fat fuck all in relation to where he might be. Christ! We don’t even know if he’s still alive or if Schuldig’s already…”

“As of yesterday at least he was still alive,” Faith interrupts softly, his calm expression not changing at, and seemingly immune to, the startled, wild-eyed look Ken immediately gives him. “I am sorry for not having said…”

“Fuck being sorry,” Ken snaps, cutting Faith off and giving an angry shake of his head. “I want an explanation more than I want any fucking waste-of-breath apology. I mean, fuck! You can’t just say that Omi is alive without being able to back it up.”

“Hey, I’ve gotta admit that I’m slightly curious as to the source of this little bombshell too,” Keegan mutters lightly, the gleam of interest in his eyes at odds with his otherwise blatantly disinterested expression. “Come on, Faith. You never said anything to me about having found anything about the great Persia.”

“I didn’t tell you because, to be perfectly frank with you, I doubted that you’d care,” Faith murmurs, looking away from Ken and, without once glancing in his brother’s direction, turning his attention to Chloé. “While I know this may sound strange,” he continues, “I was actually able to pick up the flash about Mamoru from Chloé…”

“*What*?” Ken exclaims, his hands clenching reflexively into fists as, turning on Chloé, invisible plumes of temper fuelled smoke begin pouring out of his ears. “Chloé? Just what the fuck is he talking about, huh? If you knew something about Omi and didn’t tell me then I’m never going to fucking forgive you. Do you hear me? *Never*! You… You bastard!”

“I… Oh God, I don’t know anything,” Chloé replies haltingly, looking imploringly first at Faith and then down the table at Ken, his sickly pallor now even more pronounced than when he first entered the room. “Ken, you… you’ve got to believe me. I… I know what Omi means to you and I’d never, not consciously anyway, keep anything from you.” Turning to Aya, he closes a pale hand around the redhead’s arm, squeezing it tightly. “Aya? Yohji? You believe me, don’t you? I… I never… I *wouldn’t*…”

“Of course we believe you,” Aya responds, ignoring the baleful, wounded look Ken gives him and, through narrowed eyes, glaring across the table to Faith. “As for you, perhaps you’d like to elaborate on your carelessly dropped bombshell,” he continues acidly.

Unable to bear how shocked and, I think, *hurt* Chloé looks, I get up out of my seat and, crouching down alongside him, place my hand on his thigh. “Aya’s right,” I murmur, not caring if Ken’s glaring daggers in my back as, really, out of everyone in the room it’s Chloé who’s both been through the most in the past twenty-four hours and who, let’s face it, needs to be treated the most gently. “Of course we believe you and I’m sure that once Faith has said his piece that Ken will too.”

“Faith?” Chloé whispers pleadingly, his hand still clutching Aya’s arm. “Seeing as I’m as curious as the others are about how I’m supposed to have told you that Omi is still alive, please, I need you to explain…”

“Yeah. Come on, Faith,” Ken all but snarls, any pleasure he might feel about learning that Omi’s still alive well and truly being swallowed by his disbelief and fury that this is the first he’s heard of it. “You’ve damn well got some explaining to do.”

“I’m…” Shaking his head, Faith runs his fingers through his hair and tries, without success, to make eye contact with Chloé. “Oh hell,” he mutters, shaking his head again. “I’m sorry. I never meant to upset anyone or…”

“Get. The. Fuck. On. With. It,” Ken grinds out, the impatience he’s feeling coming through in the demanding tone of his voice. “In case you missed it the first time, the last thing I want from you is a fucking apology.”

“I’m sor…” Stopping himself before Ken’s impatience takes a decidedly physical turn, Faith sighs and once again tries to lock eyes with Chloé. “While I know I should have said something before,” he murmurs with obvious caution, “I actually picked it up from Chloé during the drive back from the warehouse last night. Foolishly, and I all I can say in my defense is that I had a lot on my mind at the time, I neglected to say anything to anyone and, again, I can only apologize.”

His entire body tensing at Faith’s explanation, Chloé jerks his head up and stares across the table with an expression on his face that’s as wounded as it is mortified. “You… You were in my head,” he states dully, releasing his hold on Aya’s arm and wrapping both arms around his body in a protective gesture. “You were in my head without *asking* and… and then you didn’t even have the courtesy to *tell* me,” he continues hoarsely, clearly distressed. “How… Oh my God, Faith. How *dare* you? You knew what had happened and… and yet you…”

Unable to carry on, Chloé falls silent and, fixing his gaze on the table, refuses to look at anyone. Although he stopped short of saying it, I know what he’s thinking and, sharing a worried glance with Aya as I stand up and drape myself over Chloé’s shoulders, it’s clear that Aya knows too. Regardless of their relationship and what they mean to each other, Faith still, in a sense, used Chloé without his permission. And, well, bluntly put and again in a sense, that makes him little different to Schuldig. It may have been painless, but that’s entirely beside the point. It was still a violation, one that Chloé’s got every right to feel offended by.

Standing up and giving what could either be a snort of disapproval or, alternatively, of disgust, Free gives Faith a truly malevolent look before slipping silently out of the room. Faith, for his part though, looks close to tears and, going by the shocked expression on his face, I honestly don’t think he can think of a single thing to say that doesn’t involve either apologizing profusely or begging for forgiveness. Even Ken, who was revving up to be out for blood only a moment ago, is strangely silent, his eyes darting from Chloé to Faith and back again as Jin, Finlay, and Singapura very busily pretend that they’re somewhere else. Keegan, however -- no surprises there -- is smirking like the Cheshire Cat and I don’t think it would be too much of a stretch to say he looks the most animated he has since he first strutted the room.

Under my clumsy embrace, Chloé tries to shrink in on himself but, despite not knowing whether I’m even doing the right thing or not, I don’t lessen my hold and continue resting my chest against his back. After a few, intolerably slow seconds have passed, Chloé unfolds his arms and, with a shaky sounding sigh, reaches up and places his hand over mine.

“I’m fine,” he whispers faintly, looking up and glancing not at Faith but at Aya. “I’m just…”

“Over reacting,” Keegan finishes snidely as, leaning back in his chair, he casually places both his hands behind his head and stretches. “You don’t have to say it as we know already. I mean, Christ, get over it al…” 

“Shut up,” Aya hisses, glaring ice-tipped daggers at Keegan. “Seeing as there’s nothing you could possibly add to any of this that anyone would want to hear, why don’t you do us all a favor and just keep your fucking mouth shut for a change.”

His expression souring at Aya’s brusque treatment of him, Keegan sits up straight and slides his hands across the table as though he’s actually contemplating trying to reach Aya. “How dare you talk…”

“Shut up, Kee,” Finlay states flatly, cutting Keegan off mid self-righteously indignant rant and, in what I take to be a warning gesture, placing his hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “As much as I’m sure you’d like it to be, this isn’t about you.”

“That’s right,” Keegan scowls, shaking off Finlay’s hand with a contemptuous snort. “Side against me, why don’t you…”

“Finlay’s not siding with anyone and you know it,” Faith interrupts with the sort of award winning long suffering sigh that I usually associate with Chloé. “Honestly, Keegan, why are you behaving like this? As I’ve already told you, this alignment is only temporary and it’s not like anyone here wants it to be permanent. Once we’ve helped defeat Infinity and Schwarz we’ll return to Paris and that will be the end of it.”

“And hallelujah to that too,” Free comments drily as he walks back into the room and places a glass of water in front of Chloé. “Here. I thought that you would perhaps like a drink” he adds, gazing impassively across the table and making a point of out staring Keegan before calmly returning to his chair.

“Thank you,” Chloé murmurs, reaching for the water as, wanting to give him the freedom to move, I remove my arms from around him and take a step back. “As I was saying before though, I’m fine, really, and I apolo…”

“No apologies needed,” Aya states decisively, lightly tapping his finger on my arm and glancing at my seat to indicate that I should sit back down. “Now, let’s get back to the subject of Omi,” he continues as, after giving Chloé’s shoulder one last squeeze, I -- do as I’m told -- return to my chair. “Given that I think it’s clear that Chloé has no recollection himself of sensing Omi, Faith, perhaps you’d care to elaborate on what exactly it is you mean by saying you were able to pick up that he’s still alive through him.”

“Of course. I was going to… Ah. Never mind. It doesn’t matter now,” Faith replies, nodding as, giving up on getting any acknowledgement from Chloé, he turns to look at Aya. “While I appreciate that some of you might find this difficult to understand, what little I know about Mamo… sorry… *Omi* comes from deep within Chloé’s subconscious and, yes, given everything else that has happened it’s entirely reasonable to accept that he doesn’t even know that the knowledge is there.”

“What a load of…” Noticing the not at all friendly look that Aya’s giving him a whole split second before my elbow comes in not entirely gentle contact with his side, Ken trails off and smiles balefully. “Sorry,” he murmurs, lifting his hand and lightly smacking his temple. “I didn’t know I was speaking aloud.”

“You’re such a dick,” I mutter, ruffling Ken’s hair and snickering as he pulls his head away. “Seriously. There’s just no help for it. You’re a dick.”

“Takes one to know one,” Ken retorts, laughing as both Aya and Singapura loudly clear their throats. “Yeah, okay already,” he adds, folding his hands primly on the tabletop and, just as he did during our first meeting in the conference room, putting on his very best impression of being a dutiful and hard working student. “You don’t have to say it and I know… See? I’m shutting up and I’m listening…”

Sighing, Aya gives a weary shake of his head and returns his attention to Faith. “Go on, please.”

“As I was about to say, the reason Chloé doesn’t know anything about Omi is because he wouldn’t even have been aware of picking up the flash of information in the first place,” Faith explains, placing his hands flat on the table and staring down at his fingers. “Now, and this I’m fairly confident of being the truth, the snippet in question actually originated from Nagi and…”

“You *what*?” Ken exclaims, the admittedly surprising nature of Faith’s explanation overriding his attempt at remaining cool, calm, and silent. “Aw man, you’ve got to be yanking my chain. I mean, what the fuck? Next thing you’ll be telling me is that you telepathic freaks have some sort of psychic hotline going on that we mere mortals could never hope…”

“Ken!” Singapura snaps, standing up and placing her hands on her hips. “That is *more* than enough from you! We all know that you’re worried but, for God’s sake, you have to pull your damn head in and just listen without continually flying off the rails. Whether you even realize it or not, you’re not helping Omi by behaving like this nor are you giving me a good feeling about letting you join the mission tonight.”

“But…” Throwing himself angrily back in his chair, Ken folds his arms across his chest and shrugs insolently. “Fine,” he grinds out, his eyes flashing with barely contained temper. “Come on then, Faith, I’m listening.”

“Not to mention asking for it,” Sing mutters, running her fingers through the tips of her ponytail before, her eyes still locked on Ken, sitting back down. “Okay. Seeing as class is once again in order, Faith, the floor is yours.”

“Er… Thanks,” Faith murmurs unenthusiastically as, with obvious reluctance, he looks up from the table and faces Singapura. “Um… Not having been there myself, my only explanation for how Nagi’s thoughts transferred themselves into Chloé’s head is that… ah… Chloé’s shock made him like, for the want of a better description, an open channel. He wouldn’t even have been aware of it nor, for that matter, would have Nagi. Not being a telepath, Nagi wouldn’t have even considered that his thoughts were being beamed out and, Chloé, having other things on his mind, simply wouldn’t have taken any notice of it. It’s just… one of those things that is impossible to explain scientifically or even, in a sense, logically.” Pausing, Faith frowns and looks across to Chloé. “Does any of this ring any bells or, at the very least, make any sense to you?”

“It makes an illogical degree of sense to me, I suppose,” Chloé replies, returning Faith’s frown and shrugging. “I… I can remember Nagi being there, but that’s it. No… Actually, that’s not it… Nagi, for some reason, he argued with Schuldig that I wasn’t supposed to be there, that his… hanging on to the past… was only going to cause trouble. It was… odd, almost like Nagi wanted to, if not protect me, then, well, *stand up* for me or something. But… ah… other than that I don’t remember getting any of his thoughts and I *definitely* don’t recall anything about Omi.”

Remembering how Nagi chose not to pull Chloé up by his hair when Schuldig ordered that he turn him over at the workshop and how I’d thought it was slightly strange, almost caring, of him, I contemplate saying something about it but decide that now probably isn’t really the time. Going on the way he’s fidgeting in his seat next to me, if Faith isn’t allowed to get to the point about Omi in the next few minutes I think that Ken’s just going to *erupt* and that this time no one, not even Aya or Singapura, will be able to successfully control him.

And, no, it’s not really something that bears thinking about.

“Okay. That’s it. Now I’m *officially* confused,” Finlay mutters, his expression one of puzzlement as he turns to face Faith. “Am I right in thinking what you’re saying is that there’s a chance, keeping in mind here that we all know stranger things *have* happened, Nagi may just be on our side?”

‘No, that’s not really what I’m saying at all,” Faith replies slowly, his face a picture of concentration. “While I wouldn’t be surprised if Nagi took it upon himself to switch sides again, I’ve got nothing to back this feeling up and am as much in the dark as the rest of you in relation to what side of the fence he’ll choose to end up on.”

“Fuck Nagi,” Ken growls as, ignoring the chastising look Sing shoots him, he leans forward in his seat. “That two-timing freak is of no interest to me so, come on, cut to the chase and tell us what you know about Omi.”

“As I said earlier,” Faith responds, looking across the table to Ken, “while I can’t speak for now, this time yesterday at least he was certainly alive.”

“And I just happened to unconsciously pick this up from Nagi?” Chloé queries, still frowning. “If so, perhaps, given that you seem to know more about what’s going on in my head than I do, you’d like share what else it is that I’m supposed to know.”

“That’s about it, actually,” Faith murmurs, shrugging apologetically. “Nagi’s thoughts were simply about Omi and how he was beginning to think that Schuldig was taking things too far. Well, that’s all I was able to deduce from Chloé’s mind anyway. If we had the time I could try hypnotizing him to see if I could access anything else, but…” Trailing off, Faith turns his attention to Singapura. “Sorry. I suspect, unwittingly, that I’ve just made a mountain out of a molehill that hadn’t even reached planning stage yet.”

“Not at all,” Sing replies, smiling bleakly as she reaches across the table and gives Ken’s arm a squeeze. “When it comes to Omi, seeing as we haven’t been able to come up with a damn thing, any news can be pretty much classed as *good* news.”

“His exact whereabouts would have been better,” Ken mutters, his expression grim as he glances down at Singapura’s hand. “But… uh… yeah, Sing’s right. What you’ve managed to find out *is* good news.”

“If you like your information to be totally useless then, yeah, it’s great fucking news,” Keegan drawls, rolling his eyes. “Hell. You’re all just so freakin’ pathetic that it’s not funny. So Persia was alive yesterday? Big fucking deal. I mean, unless you can unlock his current address from Rosebud’s head you’ve really got as little as you had when you walked in here.”

“As much as I’m loathe to say this,” Aya murmurs flatly, “the obnoxious smart ass is right. I’m glad that there’s a chance Omi is still alive but, really, so what? Unless Singapura is about to tell us that she knows where to find him, I don’t know what it is we’re supposed to do…”

“Well, I’m hoping that he’ll be…” Abruptly stopping herself, Sing shakes her head and stands up. “Ooops. Sorry. I was about to jump the gun there,” she continues lightly as, tapping the laptop, she once again brings up the flowchart of events on the wall behind her. “Now, and while this is directed predominantly at Ken and Keegan it does in fact stretch to cover all of you so don’t for a second think you’re an exception to the rule, I’ll be able to get through this a hell of a lot quicker if I’m not constantly interrupted, so, please, do me a favor and just shut up and listen. Once I’m done I’ll try and answer any questions you may have but, until then, just pretend you’ve all lost the ability to speak and give me your undivided attention.” Pausing, she glances down the length of the table before continuing. “Okay. Without further ado I’ll get started. As you can see from the chart I had Turk prepare, the organization we now know as Infinity has been running the game for just over four months…”

Seeing that Asuka’s murder along with the gratuitously gory deaths of both Sorenson and Kettleman all have their very own dot point on Turk’s flowchart, and feeling as though I don’t really need to go through all the hits ands misses of the past month again, I tune out the sound of Singapura’s voice and look across the table at the members of Rosary. Jin, and I honestly don’t think he’s once looked up from it, is still staring intently at his laptop while, leaning back in his chair, Keegan peers up at the ceiling, both his posture and his vacant expression screaming of ass numbing boredom. Finlay and Faith on the other hand, despite knowing the timeline, I’m sure of it, as well as we do, both have their eyes glued on Sing and appear to be listening to her every word. Having got to know Finlay pretty well during the time we spent together last night, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if he was thinking more about what she’d look like naked than what it is she’s saying though and, amused by this thought, have to quickly suppress a grin. Faith however is a totally unknown entity, one that I can’t profess to knowing at all. 

Mind you, and there’s no point beating around the bush here or anything, I have to confess that Faith just fascinates me period. Putting his almost ethereal, far too exquisite for a man, beauty aside for a moment, there’s nothing in his appearance that so much as *hints* at his mind blowing -- pun very much not intended -- capabilities. You could walk past him in the street and think to yourself that he’d have to be a model or that you’d kill to have his eyes or whatever, but you’d never, not for a second, suspect him of possessing the sort of power that has Rosenkrus viewing him as some sort of second coming. According to Finlay, as far as Rosenkrus are concerned Faith is like their very own equivalent of the Holy Grail and getting him back rates as equal importance in their books as their long term plan of world domination. If I doubted for a second some of Finlay’s tales about what Faith is capable of doing I’d think he was pulling my leg but, well, going on last night’s minor display of his talents, I can’t help but lean towards the belief that he’s telling me the truth.

What I also can’t help but believe is that it’s a damn good job morals and willpower are two of Faith’s strongest points because the thought of Rosenkrus getting their filthy paws on his sort of power just happens to be another one of those small facts of life that doesn’t bear thinking about. Nor does what they’d do to him *if* the unspeakable did ever happen and one of their attempts to take him back actually succeeded. Despite not wanting to ‘completely ruin my evening with all the gory details’, what Finlay *did* see fit to share with me was still more than I ever needed to know about the finer points of Rosenkrus’ method of teaching and, without actually finding so much as an iota of pity in myself for the bastard, all I can say is that it’s no freakin’ wonder Schuldig’s as psychopathic as he is. How Faith, Chloé, and the others *aren’t* and have somehow managed to remain sane is nothing short of a miracle. Seriously. My skin might have been crawling as Finlay regaled me with tales of horror that would have done Stephen King proud but, hell, it’s not as though I had to *live* through any of it myself. The psychological torture, the ingrained ‘survival of the fittest’ nature from the hierarchy down, the laboratory experiments that tested everything from the strength of their ‘gifts’ to their endurance (read breaking point), the doctors and their planned breeding programs…

If Faith hadn’t managed to break free of his ‘conditioning’ then, and again I have no reason to doubt Finlay on this, it’s highly likely that Rosenkrus’ rise to power would have been unstoppable. As powerful as Schuldig is, comparing him to Faith is like comparing a Ferrari straight from the showroom with a one-of-a-type prototype that not even a blank cheque signed by Bill Gates could buy. While Schuldig can read minds, Faith, if he’d allow himself, can quite literally melt them. He can also, and this apparently is no small thing, switch his powers off and exist one hundred percent as a normal, non-Psionically gifted human being whereas there’s nothing Schuldig can do to fully shut the constant babble of the world around him from getting into his head -- to which I say sucked in, asshole, it couldn’t happen to a nicer person -- and plaguing the crap out of him.

Faith though, and God knows I’ve never been able to comprehend the actual *point* behind this statement, is just the bees knees. If Rosenkrus could map his DNA and find out exactly what it is that places him in a realm of his own power wise, they’d think all their Christmases had come at once and wouldn’t rest until they’d devised a way to replicate his abilities in mere mortals. As it is however, not having any of his test results -- as he had enough intelligence and forethought to have Jin destroy them all the night they escaped -- Christmas, as far as Rosenkrus are concerned, is simply put on indefinite hold until they manage to recapture and reprogram him to their warped way of thinking.

Schuldig being but only one -- and this, like Eminem’s continued dominance over the wannabe homeboys and homegirls of the world is something I don’t care to think about -- of the insane lunatics at Rosenkrus’ disposal, some of Rosary’s adventures and near misses that Finlay shared with me make my life seem like the embodiment of the word mundane. As with all classic good versus hideously evil stories though, regardless of how close the calls may have been and how bad things may have got, Rosary always triumph in the end and Rosenkrus always fall spectacularly on their ass. It’s just, according to Finlay, how it’s always been and, what’s more, how it always *will* be. Rosenkrus will always have a team trying to ensnare Faith and Rosary will always beat them back. Although I contemplated, while he was -- blowing his own trumpet -- telling me this, mentioning that things were capable of changing and that it didn’t pay to get too cocky, in the end I decided that there was nothing to be gained by trying to dint his belief in his team and simply let him ramble on.

With any luck, while tonight mightn’t be a Rosenkrus versus Rosary battle in the traditional sense, Finlay’s belief will be once again proven right and everything will go off without a hitch.

As oddly ironic as it is now, like Aya said yesterday, we’ve just got to have faith. Or, alternatively and far more likely as the case may be, Faith himself.

Or, you know, something like that anyway.

A hand lightly tapping on my left shoulder snapping me out of my factual if not overly entertaining daydream, I lean back in my chair and, as I’d immediately suspected, find that it’s Chloé who’s trying to get my attention. Despite having Aya directly to my left, common sense told me that it wouldn’t have been him tap, tap, tapping on my shoulder by the gentleness of the touch as, God love him, if he’d wanted to draw my attention to something he’d have chosen poking or jabbing over the tentative approach any day, and, curious as to what Chloé could possibly want, I smile a silent question at him.

Returning my smile, Chloé glances pointedly at Singapura and her flowchart of the freakin’ -- I know already, okay? -- obvious and, behind Aya’s back, surreptitiously holds out a piece of folded paper towards me. Taking what I imagine to be a note from him, I turn back to face the table and, in an attempt to keep it hidden from prying eyes, unfold it on my lap. Chloé’s highly unique and flowing cursive having a style all of its own, it takes me a moment to translate what he’s written and when I do I’m so embarrassed by the first part that I almost wish I hadn’t.

‘You may wish to stop staring at Faith as though you’d like nothing more than to have his children and actually listen to Singapura…  
P.S. About earlier…

… Thank you…’

Fuck! If Chloé noticed me staring vacantly at Faith then everybody else probably did too, and… 

And now Aya, while simultaneously very industriously pretending *not* to, is oh-so-casually glancing down at my lap and trying to read Chloé’s note.

Great. This’ll teach me for zoning out while Sing’s lecturing.

Quickly folding the note into a tiny square, I slip it into my pocket and flash a sweet ‘n’ innocent smile at Aya before sitting up straighter and focusing on Sing.

“Nice try, Yohji,” Sing murmurs, shaking her head and proving once and for all that her observation skills are second to none as, using a small remote, she changes the slide of the flowchart to that of a picture of Kimura. Well, I *think*, what with his odd-as-fuck platinum blond and black shoulder length hair making him ever so slightly stand out from the masses and not at all in-your-face ankh emblazoned tie, it’s him. If it’s not then he’s the bastard’s doppelganger.

“Okay, having reiterated the timeline leading up to now,” Singapura continues, giving me the sort of look that tells me she not only has my number but that I’m also on notice, “I’ll now move on to…”

“Look, Aya,” Keegan states, cutting Sing off as a malicious smile stretches across his lips. “It’s your favorite person.”

“Yeah, just like you’re mine,” Ken retorts, sliding down in his chair and, to my complete delight, stretching his leg out and kicking Keegan in the shin. “Christ, Faith,” he adds, sitting back up as Keegan’s face contorts with rage, “can’t you control this fucking loud mouthed idiot brother of yours? I mean, every time he opens his mouth I just want to jump the table and shove my fist in it.”

“I only wish that I could,” Faith replies, leaning forward and giving Keegan a disappointed look. “I can apologize for him, and, incidentally I’m thinking of having cards printed up to hand out so that I can stop repeating myself, but unfortunately I can not control him.”

“Pity,” Ken sighs, glowering at Keegan and, like earlier, all but daring him to try it on. “I just thought you could have planted the idea in his microscopic excuse for a brain that he was a cactus or something.”

“A cactus?” I interject, bemused by Ken’s choice of, I suppose you’d call it, punishment. “Dare I ask *why* a cactus?”

“I thought it was apt,” Ken grins. “A cactus is nasty, ugly, and pointless, just like idiot boy over there, but, and this is the bit I’d love to see realized, they’re also *silent*.”

“Well, shit,” Keegan drawls, raising an unimpressed eyebrow as he gives a little clap. “Not only are you a thug but you’re also a comedian. I *am* impressed.”

“And I’m beginning to wish that you were still tucked up with last night’s conquest,” Finlay mutters, elbowing Keegan in the ribs and quickly blocking the ensuing retaliatory blow with a fluid, almost bored looking ease. “Ken, in answer to your question the reason Faith can’t do anything about Keegan’s quite frankly embarrassing as fuck behavior is because their blood tie means that he’s incapable of getting so much as a read from him. It’s just one of the many ‘go figure’ facts of life we’ve had to come to accept and deal with.”

“Given that there’s probably nothing interesting in his head anyway, I doubt very much that Faith is missing out on anything,” Aya states coolly, gesturing at the larger than life image of Kimura staining the wall behind Singapura. “Now, childish insults and name calling hopefully over and done with for the time being, perhaps we can continue…”

“Oh, drats,” Singapura mock pouts, “and here I was hoping you were all going to throw yourselves into an all out brawl.”

“Give us time,” Ken scowls, slumping back in his chair, his gaze still locked unblinkingly on Keegan.

“Mmm… Time. How ironic you should raise the concept of time given that I keep getting interrupted,” Sing replies sarcastically, walking over to the wall and, just to ensure she’s got everyone’s attention, slamming her hand down hard on Kimura’s pinched and mean-looking face. “Boys and… er… boys, meet Takeda Hiroshi, younger half brother of the late and not at all great Kimura Hirotaka. As you can see, thanks to a truck load of cash and the services of a plastic surgeon with no morals whatsoever, he’s the spitting image of big bro.”

“His… brother?” Aya whispers, frowning first at the picture and then at the hands both Chloé and I feel compelled to immediately place on him. “Why… Ah… Where did he spring from and, more to the point, why the hell haven’t we heard about him before?”

“The reason you’ve never heard about him before is because, well, it’s basically because we weren’t even aware of his existence until last night,” Singapura responds, positioning herself just to the right of Takeda’s larger-than-life image and leaning against the wall. “As for where he sprung from? Well, without wanting to detour into giving a lecture on the birds and the bees here, he… sprung… from one Takeda Tohru thirty-four years ago. Now, Ms Takeda, before you see fit to ask the obvious questions in relation to her link to Kimura, was, oddly enough up until five months before Hiroshi’s birth, Kimura Senior’s personal assistant.”

“And, Kimura Senior, I take it, wasn’t able to keep it in his pants, yeah?” Ken queries with a snort. “Honestly, sex and money. If they’re not the root of all evil then I don’t know what is.”

“Mmm… But imagine how shit boring life would be without them,” Finlay retorts, his interest in Takeda, going on his expression as he peers at the image, being negligible at best. “Uh, sorry, Sing,” he adds hurriedly as she singles him out to be the lucky recipient of her ‘watch it!’ look. “Not having seen a good day time soap opera for a while, please continue and enlighten us with the deep and dark secrets of the Kimura family.”

“As Ken, with his usual tact and grace, implied, Kimura Senior had an affair with his personal assistant, Takeda Tohru, that resulted in him fathering a bastard son,” Singapura states, using her remote to change the image on the wall of Takeda to one of what looks to be an official Kimura family portrait. Posed in front of an imposing looking mansion, a small boy with platinum colored hair and wearing the school uniform of Tokyo’s most prestigious school stands in front of a pretentiously dressed couple. The woman, who like the boy has white-blonde hair and who looks a lot younger than her husband, stares out from the photo through sad, haunted eyes while Kimura Senior, with his hand digging proprietarily into his wife’s thin arm, looks down adoringly at his son as though, quite literally, he is his entire world.

As expensive, professional snapshots go, it’s a perfect rendering of the family’s misery, the sort of picture that acts as a crystal ball for impending divorce or heart ache.

“To assuage Finlay’s need for a soap opera fix, the story of Kimura Senior is your typical rags to riches one,” Sing continues. “Born into a poor family, his mother bore six daughters before finally giving her husband his much longed for son, his, you know, *heritage*. When his father, who by all accounts doted on the boy, died when he was eleven he left school and started work as a bicycle courier. By the time he was twenty he was the president of the courier company and by the time he was twenty-five he owned his own company which, for reasons that he took to his grave with him, he named Ewigkeit. When he was thirty three he met and married Shiozu Natsuki who, at twenty-one, was… Well, you do the math. Like, as I’m sure you’ll all appreciate, a dutiful wife should, Natsuki gave birth to Hirotaka exactly nine months after their honeymoon. Complications to his birth however resulted in her being unable to bear any more children and this, to Kimura Senior, made her little more than a beautiful accessory to host his dinner parties and cling to his arm while out lording himself over town. Their marriage, as I think is pretty obvious from the not-so-happy snap here, was loveless and in name only.”

“So good ol’ Kimura Senior had to get his jollies elsewhere,” I mutter, scowling. “Poor, hard done by creature.”

“Oh yeah, *very* hard done by,” Singapura responds, making a disgusted sound under her breath on behalf of wives stuck with unfaithful husbands everywhere. “Despite not even all his money making him an attractive proposition as far as I’m concerned, he was never lacking for willing playmates and, at the age of forty-two, found out that Tohru was going to make him a father again. His paternal instincts kicking in, he paid to move her to Kyoto and, up until his sudden fatal heart attack twelve years later, paid her a more than generous maintenance that allowed both her and her son to live in comfort. No one apart from his lawyer was aware of this however and when Hirotaka, who by now was twenty, was going through the papers relating to his inheritance he stumbled onto the fact that he had a twelve year old half brother that he hadn’t even known existed.”

“Days of Our Lives script writers eat your hearts out,” Finlay snickers, rolling his eyes. “I mean, perhaps I just watch too much bad television but I could just *so* see all of this being badly acted in a soap opera.”

“Whereas all I’m simply interested in is where exactly all this information has suddenly come from,” Aya states flatly, his expression unreadable as he looks at Sing. “From not having known about Takeda twenty-four hours ago you sure seem to know a lot about him now and I want to know how.”

“Using the appearance of who everyone naturally assumed to be Kimura at the garage as a catalyst,” Singapura replies, gesturing airily towards the end of the table and appearing completely unfazed by Aya’s rapidly darkening mood, “both Free and Jin spent last night digging up everything they possibly could on him. Now, before you have a go at them for not having said anything to you earlier, I asked them to keep silent as I wanted to be able to present the information to everyone at once. If this offends or pisses you off, Aya, then I’m sorry, but, really, it’s just tough.”

“Why ever would it piss me off?” Aya responds, sarcasm all but dripping off his tongue as, pushing away both my hand and Chloé’s, he sits up straight and drums his fingers on the table. “I don’t know what would give you that idea at all.”

“If you stopped taking this so personally for a moment you’d realize that perhaps it’s *better* hearing it this way,” Sing mutters, shrugging. “Oh, and while I’m at it there’s also the itty-bitty fact that I’d rather have teeth extracted with a crowbar than have this sort of conversation one-on-one with you but, hey, that’s my problem, not yours, right?” 

“Apparently,” Aya murmurs, giving an unimpressed sounding huff as he leans forward and folds his arms on the edge of the table, his expression scornful. 

Wanting to somehow let on to Aya that I know how hard this must be for him, I reach across and lightly place my hand on his arm. “I’m sure Singa…”

“I appreciate your concern,” Aya interrupts, giving my hand a withering glance as he pulls his arm away, “but save it. I’m not, contrary to Singapura’s opinion on the subject, taking any of this personally and I resent it being implied that I am. I’m just…”

“Dragging things out,” Singapura finishes as, taking matters into her own hands, she swiftly changes the slide of Kimura’s family to that of a young Asian man standing in front of what looks to be, architecturally wise, an old and prestigious British university. Wearing a mortar-board on his head and holding a diploma in his hand, it’s clear -- despite his solemn face -- that he’s just graduated. Neither attractive nor not and of just above average height, his appearance is both unimposing and uninteresting. 

“Keeping the soap opera, bad television theme going,” Sing continues, pushing aside Aya’s displeasure and pressing on, “this, if it were part of one of those silly extreme make-over shows, is a photo of Takeda Hiroshi while he was still playing with a full deck. Always a bright, academic boy his horizons really opened up when Kimura embraced the fact that he had a younger half brother and took him under his wing and it was Kimura who paid for him to take his law degree at Oxford. Graduating at the top of his class, he returned to Tokyo and quickly made a name for himself taking on, and winning, cases that no one else would touch. While close to Kimura, they lived very separate lives and Takeda never did any work for either Ewigkeit or any of its subsidiaries. To cut a long story short, Takeda, basically, was an intelligent and, by all accounts, good man.”

“Until…?” Ken prompts, looking at Sing expectantly. “Come on. As much as I don’t want to risk Aya hitting me for saying this, I want to know what causes him to flip out and go from normal to totally out there.”

“What causes Takeda’s life to disintegrate into insanity is a year from hell,” Singapura replies, turning the projector off and sitting down. “First his wife, who, just for the added pathos, was both pregnant *and* his childhood sweetheart, dies in a car accident. Understandably distraught by this, he turns to Kimura for emotional support and he’s just beginning to get back on his feet when, well, let’s just say Kimura too dies and leave it at that.”

“You mean to say someone did actually mourn the bastard?” Ken mutters, shaking his head. “Shit. It honestly takes all sorts of nut jobs to make the world go round, doesn’t it…”

“It can be argued that there’s no stronger emotion than that of family loyalty,” Chloé murmurs, staring down at his hands and making a point of looking at neither Faith nor Aya. “Regardless of how evil he may have been, to Takeda he was simply his brother, someone he loved.”

“And I still say he was a nut job,” Ken replies matter-of-factly. “Family loyalty or not, if it was Kimura’s death that pushed him over the edge then, fuck it, there’s just no way he could be all there.”

“The deaths of his wife and his half brother pushed him towards the edge, certainly” Sing states, once again making a calmly voiced bid for control, “but it was the sudden death of his beloved mother that gave him the final push into the abyss. Kimura Senior being a source of income and nothing else, mother and son were, for many years, all each other had and subsequently they doted on one another. Every prize, every distinction Takeda ever received was as a direct result of his desire to make his mother proud. His love for her, incidentally, is why we assume he still goes by the name Takeda and hasn’t taken on Kimura’s name to go with his face and plans for world domination.”

“So, what you’re saying is that Takeda suffered three extreme losses in a row and, in a case of three strikes and you’re out, he just lost it?” Finlay queries, his expression one of bemusement. “Hell, I’m sure it was hard on him, but, come on… If everyone flipped out when they experienced loss the world would be full up Prozac popping drones and cemeteries overflowing with suicide cases.”

“Maybe so,” Singapura responds, “but in Takeda’s case it certainly seems as though the loss of his wife, brother, and mother in quick succession was more than enough to deliver a crushing, obliterating blow to his sanity chip. Unable to cope at all he suffered an extreme nervous and mental breakdown and was admitted to the country’s best private psychiatric facility. While there he learned that he had inherited Kimura’s estate and, quite possibly because of this, became obsessed not only with his dead brother but also with his fascination for power to the point where it quite literally took over his life.”

“We were told that Kimura died without a will,” Aya interjects sullenly. “Remember? You made a trip out to Souzou to inform us personally that everything the bastard had was going to the government. Given that you’re now saying that everything went to Takeda I have to confess as to being slightly curious in regards to whether you simply wanted to fob us off three years ago.”

“As far as I was aware, what I told you at the time about Kimura not having made a will was one hundred percent correct,” Sing retorts, meeting Aya’s almost accusing gaze and coolly returning it. “What nobody knew however was that, cunning to the bitter end, Kimura *did* actually have a will, the first clause of which explicitly stated that its existence was never to be made public.”

“But… His stupid office block and Cathedral, didn’t they both end up in the hands of the government?” Ken murmurs with obvious bewilderment. “I don’t get it. I know he was mad but surely he’d have wanted them to have gone to Takeda too…”

“Apparently not,” Singapura replies. “The will, which Jin was actually able to locate a copy of, specifically states that both it and its contents were to remain a secret. Kimura, you see, was not only a busy boy but he was also paranoid and had money stashed in carefully hidden bank accounts all over the globe. To him, giving up Cathedral and other pieces of his real estate was a small price to pay in order to keep the rest of his fortune safe. Yes, I’ll admit it’s well and truly a case of ‘go figure’, but there you go. Ours is not to reason why and all that.”

“There’s no two ways about it, the guy was a total whack job,” Ken mutters with what almost sounds like a degree of awe in his voice. “And going on his younger brother’s spectacular fall into insanity, I’d say it must run in the family.”

“So, having lost everything he held dear he decided to take it upon himself to… ah… turn himself *into* Kimura?” I query hesitantly, pretty sure that I’m hearing what I’m thinking I’m hearing but nonetheless wanting to know for sure. “As, you know, one *would*, I suppose.”

“Oh absolutely, as one would for sure,” Ken snickers, slapping me on the back and grinning. “Good one, Yohji. Listening to you say it like that, you’re right, of course it was the only sensible thing for him to do.”

“Well, Takeda seemed to think so,” Sing responds, the half formed sneer crossing her face telling us that she thinks he’s as mad as the rest of us do. “While it’s unlikely the full extent of his reasoning will ever be know, it’s clear now that he honestly believes himself to be the reincarnation of Kimura. Upon release from the psychiatric hospital he hopped onto a plane and went to Germany, where, under a different name, Kimura had both a holiday home and a thriving sideline in Class A drugs. There, alone with all of Kimura’s meticulously kept records pertaining to both the public *and* secret side of Ewigkeit and with nothing but the voices in his head to keep him company, he fastened onto the idea of making himself look like his half brother and proceeded to spend a small fortune on plastic surgery.” 

Clicking the projector on again, Singapura brings up a different photo of Takeda-as-Kimura from the one she started the slideshow with and, without bothering to turn around to glance at it, gestures at the wall. “Again, as you can all see the doctor did one hell of a job as the likeness is uncanny. If you look closely he’s even got the solid gold nail on his little finger that Kimura did.”

“And, let me see if I’m getting this right, not content with inheriting the bastard’s fortune and making himself look like him, he’s now wanting to pick up where he left off?” Ken murmurs, reaching across the table and prizing the remote out of Sing’s hand in order to turn the projector off. “He wants… Aya?”

“What he really wants is a well aimed bullet,” I mutter, not really wanting to hear the rest of what Sing’s got to tell us but knowing that I have to, that, regardless of how unpleasant it may be, I need to be aware of the greater picture. “I mean… Shit. I’m sorry for his losses but, come on, as over-reactions go this one is a league all of its own.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I have to say I find it kind of neat myself,” Keegan comments, yawning broadly and blinking as though he’s having difficulty staying awake. “Better than just trying to solider on at any rate.”

“As stupid things to say go, that too is in a league all of its own,” Sing retorts, looking at Keegan for a second as though he was some sort of particularly foul insect before returning her gaze to the rest of the table. “Now, in respect to what Takeda thinks he wants I think it’s safe to say that he wants it all. He wants Kimura’s dreams for Ewigkeit realized. He wants to be recognized as Kimura. He wants revenge on Weiss for bringing about Kimura’s downfall and, yes, he wants Aya.”

“Bully for…” The rest of Aya’s reply being swallowed by a hoarse coughing fit, he shakes his head and gestures for Singapura to continue.

“When did Schwarz enter the equation?” Chloé queries, pushing his glass towards Aya and staring at him pointedly until he takes it and chokes down a mouthful of water. “As we now know Schuldig was part of the party that attacked Aya at Wapping and, forgive me for the sheer obviousness of this question, I’m curious as to why that whole set up went down the way it did… If Takeda was the one holding Schuldig’s leash, then why didn’t they just pick Aya up then and there and be done with it? They had him, after all, and going on how well the attack was planned they could have had him out of the country before we’d even realized he was gone.”

“Oh God, shut up, Chloé,” Ken groans, screwing his face up and rubbing his temples. “When you say it like that my blood just turns to ice.”

“I can’t say hearing it put so succinctly does a lot for me either,” I add, thinking back to the events of that night and hunching my shoulders as a shiver works its way down my spine. “But… Hell, Chloé’s right. If they’d really wanted Aya, why didn’t they just, you know, take him when they had him?”

“Because that wouldn’t have been as much fun,” Aya murmurs quietly, taking another swallow of water and, weakened by the force of his coughing, breathing deeply. “Remember Ken’s analogy about likening this to a game of cat and mouse? I think he’s right. The whole thing is nothing more than an elaborately planned and executed game. Wapping… was just the opening move, a demonstration or, if you like, a warning of what was to come.”

“Aya, I think, is right,” Sing replies, a flicker of either worry or uncertainty ghosting across her face as she glances at Aya. “Once Takeda happened to chance upon Schwarz, and incidentally we’re yet to determine when or where this first meeting took place, I suspect they sat down, pooled resources and grievances and, from there, started to work on a plan.”

“But…” Looking perplexed, Ken shakes his head and gives an expansive ‘I’m so confused’ shrug. “Help me here, please. I just don’t get it. If they want Aya in a cage and the rest of us dead, why the fuck don’t they just get on with it instead of playing their lame ass mind games and generally jerking us around? It… It’s just a Goddamn wank, all of it.”

“Why?” Faith states softly, his expression grim. “Because they *can*, that’s why. While you might hate someone enough to kill them they can still only die once and, if you believe that that person is responsible for your own suffering then, in your mind, it’s only right that they too should suffer like you have. If they’re dead then their suffering is over while you, you’re left with only a momentary sense of achievement before everything reverts to exactly how it was before. Think about everything Schuldig has ever done to either you or someone you care about. Now, knowing that you’ve got the upper hand and that he’s going to die anyway, what would you rather do? Shoot him through the heart or perhaps chain him up and leave him to starve to death?”

“Me personally, I’d like to feed him to a tank of half starved piranhas,” Ken scowls. “But… ah… yeah. I *do* get what you’re saying.”

“Why half starved?” Chloé murmurs, directing his question at no one in particular. “If they were well fed then they’d just… gnaw… on him… possibly for days…”

“Chloé!” Faith exclaims, his eyes widening in shock. “You’re not…”

“You’re right,” Chloé interrupts, his eyes cold as he lifts his head and stares across the table at Faith. “Feeding him to piranhas would be cruel and unbecoming. Given how bitter and twisted the bastard is he’d probably just poison them and, you’re right, I could never be so cruel to an animal.”

“And on that note, let’s move on,” Singapura interjects hurriedly, the lucky recipient of her worried look shifting from Aya to Chloé. “What everyone is saying appears to be correct in that, yes, everything that has taken place is indeed part of the game Takeda and Schwarz are playing with us. From Sorenson to Kettleman to, I’m sorry, Yohji, Asuka’s murder and Omi’s abduction, and everything else that has happened in between, it’s all been little more than carefully played moves on a chessboard. The other teams were simply taken out because, apart from the threat they posed to Infinity’s muscling in on the underworld, they were of no interest. Weiss and, by process of proximity and, I assume, past histories, Krypton Brand, however… Well, you’ve just borne the brunt of it.”

“What about yesterday though?” I query, wishing Sing had just prepared all this information as a list of dot points on a sheet of paper as, nearing overload, I can feel my brain threatening to go out on strike. “If Wapping was a warm up exercise and Schuldig’s visit to Aya in the cemetery merely some sort of meet and greet, what the fuck was yesterday all about? Perhaps I’m reading too much into it but, really, there’s no way what went down yesterday can be viewed in any other way than deadly serious. Schuldig, I’m sure of it, meant business.”

“I suspect that you’re right,” Sing replies, nodding as her gaze moves from Chloé to me. “Again, without anything concrete to back these theories up, we honestly believe that, yes, what occurred yesterday was meant to represent the beginning of the end. Takeda was meant to retrieve Aya while, the game having reached its use-by-date, everyone else was probably just to be killed. The arrival of Rosary on the scene however changed things and evened out the playing field. If they hadn’t arrived when they did, then… well…”

“I think we get the picture,” Ken mutters, unconsciously stroking his wounded shoulder. “But… Oh God! This is all doing my freakin’ head in. Why yesterday, huh? Why’d they attempt to make their final move then? I don’t get it. Hell, while on the subject of things I don’t get, why didn’t they just bust in here instead of making us jump through hoops and trek down to the wreckers? God knows it would have had to have been easier.”

“Ah, now *that* I happen to know the answer too,” Finlay responds, gesturing around him. “This place, no shit, is like a fortress and short of either coming through the gate in an armored tank or dropping a bomb on the house there just wasn’t any way in hell that they were getting in. Trust me. We tried to devise a way of breaking in while we were monitoring you and, seriously, it’d just be near on impossible. I’ll say one thing for the Yanks that built this place, questionable architectural designs aside, they sure know about building to protect.”

“Oh. Okay.” Looking suitably placated by Finlay’s response, Ken turns to Singapura. “Your turn,” he prompts. “They couldn’t break in here because we’re living in Tokyo’s equivalent of the Pentagon, and the reason yesterday was meant to be D-Day was because…”

“Because perhaps they wanted you out of the way before tonight’s launch,” Sing replies, reaching down beside her chair and pulling a large matt silver envelope out of her satchel that she places on the table. “Because perhaps as proof of his success Takeda wanted Aya on a chain by his side,” she continues with a small shrug. “Because perhaps they’d become bored with playing with you… Quite frankly your guess is as good as mine.”

“Launch?” Aya queries blandly, any opinions he might have on Sing’s suggestion that Takeda might have wanted him chained to his side hidden behind a carefully schooled mask of focused interest. “Launch of *what*?”

“It’s a carefully kept secret,” Singapura responds, sliding the silver envelope across the table to Aya. “What we’re thinking though is that, like a phoenix rising from the ashes of its parent, it’s most likely going to be the relaunch of Ewigkeit. Takeda *may* be going to keep the name Infinity but, given his obsessive worship of Kimura, I suspect that it’s only been an interim name while he’s waited for the right opportunity to bring back Ewigkeit. Don’t forget that to Mr and Mrs and Ms Public, Ewigkeit are simply a highly successful conglomeration that just happened to have to file for bankruptcy three years ago. They know nothing of its other side and will see nothing untoward about its return whatsoever.”

“What’s this then?” Aya murmurs, picking the envelope up and peering at it suspiciously. Turning it over in his hands, I see that it’s addressed to Takatori Mamoru and, anxious to see what it contains, only just resist the urge to snatch it from him.

“Open it and you’ll find out,” Sing mutters, her expression clouding over. “It arrived the day after Omi’s abduction yet, due to the office being in a state of confusion, it only came to our attention this morning. It’s also why I’m so adamant that we have to move to shut down Takeda tonight.”

“For God’s sake, Aya!” Ken exclaims, reaching past me and making an attempt to grab the envelope out of Aya’s hands. “Open the damn thing already.”

Leaning forward to shoot Ken an ominous -- ‘don’t you *dare* tell me what to do’ -- look, Aya opens the envelope and carefully pulls out what appears to be a very expensive looking card. Made out of thick black parchment, the front of the card is decorated with a silhouette of a phoenix done in shiny red foil. With its wings outstretched and with an ankh on its chest, it’s a perfect rendition of the phoenix from both Wapping and the garage last night. Under it, and written in a plain, understated font in the same red foil is the statement, ‘From The Ashes…’

“How original,” Aya sighs, turning the card over and promptly showering both himself and the table with a collection of small, confetti like shapes. “Oh, great,” he complains, scowling down at the bats, ankhs, infinity symbols and bright red poppies as they quickly spread out across the tabletop. “You didn’t perhaps consider warning me about the card coming with accessories?”

“And deprive you of the same fun I had when I opened it?” Singapura replies innocently. “Hell no. Besides, if you think there’s a lot there I can assure you that there was actually double that originally. In fact, really, you should just consider yourself lucky that I couldn’t be bothered crawling around on my hands and knees to pick them all up.”

“Takeda’s clearly a man who believes in excess, isn’t he?” Chloé murmurs, picking through the shapes and collecting one of each to line up in front of him.

“You haven’t seen nothing yet,” Sing replies, reaching across the table to tap her finger on the back of the card. “Go on. Open it up. Oh, and be prepared to be both amazed and appalled.”

“I’m already appalled,” Aya mutters, pushing all the tiny shapes aside before placing the card flat on the table and opening it up. “And, okay, now I’m *really* appalled,” he adds, looking down at the 3D rendition of a church that’s now standing up from the middle of the card and shaking his head. “This idiot really doesn’t have a subtle bone in his body, does he?”

“Don’t tell me that’s meant to represent Cathedral?” Chloé queries, beating Ken to the card and picking it up in order to have a better look. “Oh God… It is. According to what’s written underneath, tonight is ‘Penance Night’ at the refurbished and entirely revamped Cathedral. Fancy dress, the themes of which I’m sure you’ll be delighted to hear are fetish, Hollywood, goth, and horror, is a must and, how’s this for an incentive to drag yourself down there, at the strike of midnight the secret of the phoenix will be revealed to the believing.”

“To the believing?” Ken echoes, holding his hand out for the card. “Christ. To just call this guy a whack job doesn’t even begin to do him justice. Come on, Chloé, hand over the card so I can see for myself just how insane this Takeda really is.”

“Believe it or not, it actually gets better,” Chloé replies, handing Ken the card. “Read the small print at the bottom.”

“As gratitude to our friends who attend Cathedral’s reopening spectacular, a sum of two hundred thousand yen per head will be donated to local children’s charities,” Ken reads, his expression bordering on that of the particularly incredulous. “Fuck me! The bastard’s sucking people in by offering blood money to charities. Christ! How low is that, huh?”

“It’s actually rather clever,” Aya murmurs begrudgingly, unwrapping a cough lozenge and, with a sigh, placing it in his mouth. “Think about it. Instead of having to answer people’s questions as to who he is and what the secret might be, he’s both appealing to their better nature and quashing their possible skepticism with a simple, easily understood good deed. If you were some celebrity or politician who received this you probably wouldn’t think twice about going because it seems so totally aboveboard and… well… community spirit orientated.”

“Yeah, but dragging poor and needy children into his twisted web?” Ken scowls, flicking the pop-up church with his finger and putting a mark in the cardboard. “Fucker. It’s just wrong.”

“Um… I’m assuming that you’re wanting us to be there?” I query cautiously, taking the card from Ken and looking it over closely. Despite having no recollection of Cathedral myself, I know that it was Kimura’s pet project and that, as a club to beat all club’s, he’d meant for it to revolutionize Tokyo’s night life. What I also know is that he died there, on opening night, at Aya’s hands, and that I’d been there with the ambition to kill him myself burning in my veins. Oh. Yeah. And let’s not forget that Cathedral was where the prick shot me too.

Hell. Defective memory aside, I still happen to know enough about Cathedral to know that, well, really I have no great desire to ever see it again, let alone step foot in the place.

“I’m wanting you all to be there, yes,” Sing confirms, crushing any iota of hope I may have had about all the signs not pointing where I thought they were pointing in one succinct statement. “To be precise, what I’m really wanting is for Takeda not to live to see the witching hour. For the sake of both nipping his grandiose plans in the bud and discouraging any other would-be despots who might feel the urge to try in his wake, I want Ewigkeit crushed before it’s once again allowed a public face. If it’s allowed to be relaunched and given media coverage then I’m afraid that Takeda will become a lot harder to take down.”

“Makes sense, I suppose,” Finlay replies, plucking the card from my hands and placing it on the table between himself and Keegan so that they can both look at it at the same time. “Why wait until tonight though? Given the hordes of people that will be flocking to the, and I quote, *spectacular*, wouldn’t it be easier if we went in now?”

“This is something I’ve thought about in considerable detail,” Singapura responds, her expression the very embodiment of seriousness and professionalism, “and I’ve come to the conclusion that attacking Takeda in the midst of his… glorious return… is the way to go. Security will be tight but, from the intelligence gathered by Bengal’s boys, I honestly believe that it would be harder to get in now than it will be once the party’s started. From all reports the preparations for tonight are being run with military precision and armed guards are patrolling everything from Cathedral to the blocks surrounding it.”

“And what, tonight they’re going to have pensioners on walking sticks guarding it?” Ken snorts. “God, Sing. What drugs are you on, huh? If you can guarantee that Takeda’s there, I say we go in now and get it over and done with.”

“And I’ve decided that we wait until tonight,” Sing states firmly, returning the glare Ken directs at her with practiced, nonchalant ease. “While I accept that I could be wrong, I think that attacking Takeda in the midst of his show carries an element of surprise that would be lacking if we tried to get into Cathedral now. That said, unless someone feels any compulsion to challenge my leadership, it’s my decision to make and, be it right or wrong, I’ve made it.”

“It’s going to be difficult whenever we make our move,” Aya comments with a decided lack of enthusiasm. “From my own point of view I don’t like either plan, *but* as I can see Singapura’s logic in wanting Takeda dead before Ewigkeit once again has a public face, I am nonetheless willing to accept her direction.”

“Well, if Aya’s prepared to paint a target on his back then I suppose I may as well just give up now,” Ken mutters, shrugging and slumping back in his seat. “Actually, yeah… Why not? Takeda dying in the midst of Cathedral’s launch will have a nice kind of symmetry to it. First his dumb-fuck half-brother and then him… Yeah. Sounds good to me.”

“So… How exactly are we going to get in?” I query, pulling the card back away from Finlay and waving it at Sing. “Forgive me if this sounds either too obvious or pessimistic, but I can’t really see us all getting in with one invitation.”

“I’m hoping that Faith will be able to help solve this particular dilemma, actually,” Singapura responds, nodding at Faith and smiling as he nods back.

“Of course. It will not be a problem,” he states softly and, to my ears at least, incredibly cryptically. “I can easily get everyone in this room past the guards at the door so, rest assured, Yohji, getting in will be simple.”

“Huh?” I grunt, sharing a blank, confused look with Ken. “I’m sorry, but I just don’t…”

“Old Jedi mind trick,” Finlay interrupts with a grin. “You’ll see when we get there.”

“Aaah… I get it,” Ken replies, grinning as, obviously being more up with his useless pop culture references than I am, things apparently fall into place in his head. “It’ll be a bit like Obi-Wan telling the storm troopers in Mos Eisely that Threepio and Artoo *aren’t* the droids they’re looking for, yeah? How positively cool!”

“What on *earth* are dribbling on about, Ken?” Aya mutters with just a touch of exasperation in his voice. “While I can understand that Faith is going to trick the guards into believing that we have invites, I have no idea whatsoever about what it is you’re going on about.” 

“Star Wars,” Finlay states, his eyes lighting up in way that reminds me of the oddly disturbing gleam that appears in Ken’s eyes whenever he launches into a lecture about football (and why it’s so great, and how we don’t know what we’re missing out on, and how Manchester United are the best of the best, and blah -- fanatical ravings of someone who needs to get a life -- blah…). “You know, very famous and very good movie trilogy followed by… ah… some not so good prequels.”

“Oh.” Clearly unmoved by Finlay’s demonstration of fannish behavior, Aya stares at him for a couple of seconds before slowly shaking his head and turning his attention to Singapura. “Okay. So we get into Cathedral and then what?

“You get into Cathedral and then you do whatever it takes to hunt down and eradicate Takeda,” Sing murmurs, both the small shrug she gives and her expression telling us that, yes, she knows her answer is lame. “Sorry. While I’d love to give you clearer instructions I simply can’t. Not only are Takeda’s movements variable in the extreme but so to is the actual layout of Cathedral. I can show you both the original plans and the revamped layout for when it was doubling as a charity office but I honestly don’t know how much help they’d be to you. Going on everything else we’ve learnt about Takeda thus far, it stands to reason that he’s most likely gutted Cathedral’s interior and either restored it to its former glory or, alternatively, changed everything.”

“So what you’re telling us is that we just go in and run around like headless chickens until we find him and finish him off?” Ken queries bluntly, nodding to himself. “Fair enough. I can deal with that. What about Schwarz though, are they a target too?”

“Schwarz are *always* a target,” Singapura replies, picking the remote for the projector up and toying with it. “That said, they are not tonight’s priority and I don’t want anyone thinking otherwise. Tonight is solely about Takeda and stopping the rebirth of Ewigkeit.”

“And Omi?” Aya murmurs questioningly. “Is there any chance that he could be at Cathedral tonight as well? And, if he isn’t, aren’t we just right back where we started?”

“Takeda’s reasons for having had Schwarz abduct Omi still being of considerable cause for uncertainty,” Sing responds, dropping the remote carelessly on the table and, with a flick of her finger, pushing it away from her, “all I can really say in response to your question, Aya, is I’m hoping like mad that you actually find him there. It could just be wishful thinking on my behalf but there’s a part of me that definitely believes that he’ll be… somewhere. Whether it’s hidden in a back room or drugged and by Takeda’s side as a show of alliance with the Takatori’s, I just can’t help but think he’ll be there.”

“You… ‘can’t help but think he’ll be there’?” Ken repeats, hiding his hands under the table as they reflexively clench into fists. “What gives with that, huh, Sing? From having squat for near on a week now you’ve suddenly got the nerve to casually state that you pretty much reckon we’ll find him tonight, that… that he’s been under our *noses* the whole Goddamn time?”

Not liking the dark look of outrage on Ken’s face, I place my hand on his arm and give it a gentle pat. “I’m sure Sing didn’t mean…”

“Actually,” Aya interrupts, reaching past me and pulling my hand away from Ken’s arm, “I’m interested in Singapura’s response in relation to Ken’s question as well. As he said, we’ve been here for nearly a week yet this is the first *hint* of a lead we’ve had in regards to Omi’s possible whereabouts.”

“You two are growing suspicious in your old age,” Singapura mutters defensively. “What’s more, if you honestly think that I’ve kept something about where Omi could be from you then you’re as insane as you are suspicious. If you must know however, we simply overlooked Cathedral as a possible hideout, hell, as a possible source of interest, period. I apologize and, yes, I accept that it was careless of us, but other than that there’s nothing else I can really say. Cathedral was no longer in Kimura’s name, various charity organizations had been using it ever since his death and, well, when the fencing went up around it and the construction work began we just assumed that the government was on some sort of renovation kick.”

“Schwarz and the Infinity hired help, they could have been coming and going disguised as construction workers,” Chloé offers mildly. “It would explain why we were never able to locate their base.”

“As headquarters go, Cathedral is, in fact, perfect,” Jin announces softly, standing up and carrying his laptop around to Singapura as, no doubt astonished by the fact he’s still awake, everyone stares at him in amazement. “If I may,” he continues, gesturing at the projector and, once Sing has nodded her permission, plugging it into his computer. “Once Cathedral was mentioned I took the liberty of doing a search for all recorded blueprints relating to both it and the land it is built on. While, as Miss Singapura stated, no plans exist in relation to its current build, I was still however able to come across something which I’m sure you’ll find interesting. Whether you can recall this or not, Cathedral is actually built on the grounds of what used to be the Sisters of Mercy Hospital. Now, look…” 

Pausing, Jin places his laptop on the table and, opening it up, quickly types a chain of commands on the keyboard that result in a detailed, 3D rendering of the old hospital appearing on the wall. He then hits another button and the hospital disappears, leaving in its place a blueprint of what looks to be of a collection of rooms and corridors. “While this may not mean anything to you, what you’re looking at is actually the layout of the hospital’s basement. See… As with many hospitals of its generation, both the morgue and many of its laboratories and teaching facilities were kept in the basement. Now, having perused a copy of the original demolition contract for the hospital that makes no mention of clearing up the basement, I believe that it is actually still there, that Cathedral was built on top of it.”

“Which in turn means that Takeda and friends could have been holed up there all along,” Ken murmurs, gazing intently at the blueprint as though he’s trying to memorize it. “Hell… Well done, Jin. Cathedral being such an all consuming source of disgust for me, I’d forgotten all about the old hospital that had once been there.”

“While I’m all for congratulating Jin on his discovery,” Aya murmurs, “what he’s actually showing us is that our job tonight just got all that much harder. Now, not only will we have to search Cathedral from the ground up but we’ll also have to cover every square inch of the basement as well. If Takeda’s not doing the meet ‘n’ greet thing in the midst of the party and is actually holding off putting in an appearance until midnight, then locating him could prove to be somewhat difficult.”

“I was thinking that myself,” Singapura replies, studying the blueprint with the same sort of intensity as Ken is. “Luckily however there are nine of you to do the searching which, hopefully, weights the odds of success more in our favor. Now, unless anyone’s got any better suggestions, what about…”

Only half listening to Sing as she lists some suggestions in relation to how we should best go about hunting down Takeda, I glance aimlessly around the table and try not to think about what we could be walking in to tonight. Takeda on what more or less counts as his home ground, Schuldig and multiple minions backing him up, hordes of innocent members of the public milling around and running interference, Aya and Chloé doing their best to pretend that they’re fine…

And… Fuck it. Bring it on. 

As has been the idea all along, the sooner we gain control of the situation the quicker we get back to selling flowers in London. *And* the sooner we get back to London, the quicker things have a chance of settling back in to what passes as normal.

Besides, as risky as blithely strolling into Cathedral is going to be, it’s not exactly as though *any* attack we choose to mount is going to fall into the ‘piece of cake/walk in the park’ category. For some reason, going on how things have fallen into place so far, I just can’t see Takeda or Schwarz simply resting on their laurels or, well, doing anything at all that could possibly make things easier for us. So, yeah…

If it has to be tonight then so be it.

Intent on convincing myself that, hell yeah, I’m positive about things, that come tomorrow Omi will be back safe and we’ll be -- triumphant and uninjured -- looking in to flights home, I remain silent and let the debate about the details, minor and otherwise, fly over my head. Keeping in line with the style of -- free flowing -- discussion ever since we all sat down around the conference table, nearly everyone, with the exception of Free and Jin who merely sit there looking studious and wise, has a lot to say and, eventually, after a quarter of an hour or so has passed, a plan is agreed upon that appeases everyone’s concerns and ideas.

As plans go, it’s simple, hopefully foolproof and, best of all to my thinking, easily grasped.

Rosary’s ‘no kill’ policy being something Faith refuses to be moved on, Finlay, Jin, and Keegan will be predominantly responsible for clearing Cathedral of civilians while Faith tries to locate Omi through some sort of telepathic link. Everyone else, meanwhile, will fan out and search for Takeda. Should he not be obliging and not be found on the ground floor then, in pairs and once again with Rosary supplying non-lethal back up, a thorough search of the basement will be conducted. Schwarz if, or more likely *when* encountered, can be neutralized by whatever means necessary, just as it doesn’t matter how exactly Takeda dies so long as he does. Singapura, with Bengal as her ‘date’, will be on the ground and both will assist in any way needed.

Failure not being an option that anyone wishes to contemplate, the only fallback plan for if the mission is compromised is to retreat to, and regroup at, the embassy. The pessimist in me would like something better, such as a squadron of those Navy SEALS I was wishing for yesterday, to come in behind us, but, not wanting to draw attention to myself, I don’t say anything. After all, it’s not --backup being pretty thin at the moment thanks to Takeda’s taking out of most of Kritiker’s other teams -- as though we really have any other choice. So, again, yeah... Whatever. We’ll do what we have to in order to succeed.

And that, regardless of any doubts or opinions I, or for that matter, anyone else, may have, is just all there is to it. We fight because we have to and because we all know there’s no other way.

“Well, I suppose that’s it,” Singapura declares, closing her laptop down and standing up. “If you’re all clear on the plan and don’t have any other questions, I really should be getting back to Turk.”

“We need to finish now anyway as it is almost time for our link up with Switzerland,” Free replies, placing a tarot card down on his spread that causes both a momentary flash of shock to appear on his face and for him to quickly destroy the layout before anyone can see what the card was.

“Free?” Chloé murmurs hesitantly, sharing a worried glance with Aya. “What did you see?”

“Nothing. I didn’t see anything,” Free states with an adamant shake of his head as, abruptly, he stands up and starts to walk out of the room. “If you will excuse me, I need to be in the office in order to set up the equipment. Chloé, Aya, Yohji, and Ken, I would appreciate it if you could join me for the link within ten or so minutes.”

“We’ll be there,” Aya replies, picking his cough lozenges up and pushing his chair back. “Singapura, you have finished, yes?”

“Yes, I’ve finished,” Sing confirms, packing up her laptop and returning it to its case. “In fact, as far as I’m concerned class can hereby be formally dismissed. Aya, Chloé… If the pair of you would be so good as to stay behind for a moment there’re just a couple of things I’d like to say to you.”

“Sorry, Singapura,” Aya mutters, standing up and ignoring the mute look of surprise Chloé is giving him, “but there’s absolutely nothing you could say to me that I would want to hear.”

“I expected as much,” Singapura sighs as Aya disappears through the door and the rest of us slowly get to our feet. “Chloé? Please tell me that you’re not going to be as rude as Abyssinian and that you’ll actually stay to listen to what I have to say.”

“Uh…” A slave to his own innate politeness, Chloé folds his hands around the back of his chair and nods. “Sure. I’d be delighted to stay.”

“Liar,” I whisper, blowing a farewell kiss at Sing as I start to follow the members of Rosary out the door. “You could always do an Aya and just tell her to bite you…”

“I *heard* that,” Singapura retorts, laughing. “Go on. All of you, shoo… I want to talk to Chloé.”

“Some people just get all the luck,” Ken comments, squeezing Chloé’s shoulder as he passes. “Don’t worry though, if you’re not out in ten minutes we’ll send Free in to sort her out.”

“Thank you… I think,” Chloé replies, sitting back down as Singapura takes a seat in the chair Aya had been using. “I’m sure that this will not take long, however…”

“Fingers crossed,” I murmur, slipping through the door and, finding Aya waiting in the corridor, stepping aside to let Ken pass. “Hey…”

“If anyone cares I’m going to go pop some of my groovy painkillers before joining Free in the office,” Ken states, looking at Aya curiously for a moment before shrugging and continuing on his way. “Don’t forget that Free’s likely to get narky if we keep Michel and Yuki waiting.”

“We’ll be there,” Aya replies, leaning against the wall and glancing across at the open door to the conference room. “You know what she’ll be saying to him, don’t you?” he continues quietly. “Contrary to her earlier statement about how she doesn’t care how we’re feeling and how we’re all needed tonight, she’ll be trying to convince him that he doesn’t have to join us, that, if he’d prefer, he could help Turk…”

“If that’s the case she wanted to say the same thing to you too,” I murmur, ferreting a smoke out of my pocket in anticipation of getting a fix in before having to dutifully report to Free in the office. “Perhaps, and don’t get all indignant here, she’s even right. You’re not…”

“If I could, I’d stop Chloé from coming with us,” Aya interrupts softly, surprising me to the point of making me totally lose my train of thought. “He won’t say it, but he’s… sorer than he’s letting on… and I don’t think facing Schuldig again, not so soon after… Well. I just don’t think it’ll be good for him. He won’t let us down, and I still trust him to do his best, but…” Tailing off, Aya looks across at me and shrugs. “It doesn’t matter.”

“What if you said something to him, you know, as a friend?” I suggest, tucking my smoke behind my right ear and leaning on the wall opposite Aya. “He’d probably listen to…”

“No.” Shaking his head, Aya cuts me off again and after pushing himself away from the wall, starts to pace. “He’d no more listen to me than I would to him… or even you, for that matter. I’m sorry, Yohji. I never should have said anything and want you to forget that I ever brought the subject up.”

“Don’t you ever abandon me to a lecture like that again,” Chloé murmurs, walking out of the conference room and giving Aya’s arm a poke with his finger. “Honestly, Aya, it was just plain cruel of you.”

“No one forced you to stay,” Aya mutters, tugging on the hem of Chloé’s shirt and pulling him down the corridor. “Come on, we need to get you changed before seeing you like this causes Yuki and Michel to follow Yohji’s lead of calling you Lestat.”

“Actually, as touching as your concerns about my appearance are,” Chloé replies, reaching out and plucking my smoke from behind my ear, “having seen the card that Free tried his hardest to hide, I need a cigarette before I can so much as *contemplate* smiling blandly for the kiddies.”

“What was it?” Aya queries, letting go of Chloé’s shirt and coming to a stop. “Come on, you can’t say something like that without backing it up.”

“You sure you really want to know?” Chloé responds, looking at me until I get the hint and hand him my lighter.

“Chloé…”

“Yeah, yeah… You don’t have to ‘Chloé’ me in that tone of voice,” Chloé mutters airily, giving Aya a light kiss on the cheek as he strolls past. “The card, if you must know, was the Ten of Wands and, before you ask, yes, it was reversed. Now, Yohji? You coming for a smoke or what?”

“I…” Moving away from the wall, I join Aya in the middle of the corridor and, not particularly enamored with the pained expression on his face that immediately took up position at Chloé’s response, close my hand around his arm. “Um… Someone care to take pity on this non tarot-literate person here and explain just what the hell a reversed Ten of Wands is meant to mean?”

“It can mean many things, some worse than others,” Aya murmurs, his eyes troubled as he watches Chloé walk into the living room. “Two of its strongest meanings however are treachery and that some losses will occur… In other words, if Free’s cards are right, we’re going to be betrayed…”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Taking a detour into the realm of make-believe here, assassins, as a rule of thumb anyway, are generally pretty cool. They have cool weapons, cool clothing, cool attitudes and, yep, you guessed it, they’re just… *cool*. Even the bad assassins, the one’s that are after the movie’s heroine and/or hero are usually cool. They may be evil and their obligatorily gory death at the hands of the heroine and/or hero at the end of the movie may be what the audience has been cheering for all along, but, regardless of their greed driven hearts and lust for blood, they still have that… certain something… and they’re still cool.

They also, and I’m talking about both good *and* bad assassins here, have cool cars. Usually black and *always* fast, they’re just the icing on the cake in respect to the whole ‘assassins ‘R’ cool’ scenario.

Now, don’t me wrong, our car is cool enough. It’s black and it’s a top of the range, fully kitted out Mercedes. It could also, I’m sure of it, successfully drag off any racing modified Nissan or Toyota that made the mistake of daring it for a quick drag at the lights. The fact that it looks like a family car or something a politician would drive aside, it’s a *lovely* car. Expensive, quiet as, elegant… You’d be a fool to find fault in it. Me personally, I particularly like the heated leather seats and how I swear my also leather clad ass is beginning to stick to it...

But, hey, these things are sent to trial us, right? Besides, what’s a bit of hot and itchy discomfort when you may very well be being driven to your final destiny anyway?

Back to the issue of the car though, our Mercedes, if not exactly cool, is, and there’s just no two ways about it, classy. It’s also, for those of us fortunate to be sharing the backseat, quite crowded. And, I’m sorry, but… come on, nowhere does it say anything in the ‘How To Be A Cool Assassin’ handbook about, well, traveling in *packs*. Yes, the Mercedes is a five-seater and, yes, there’s five us all heading in exactly the same direction, but…

I feel like a geek.

Sitting up in the middle of the backseat with Aya leaning on my left side and Ken leaning on my right, I honestly just feel like a complete and utter geek. It’s perfectly all right for Chloé and Free as they’ve got the nice and roomy front of the car to themselves. Hell, given that they can at least stretch their legs out and don’t have to sit with their knees feeling as though they’re bunched up around their ears, Aya and Ken are probably fine with their seating arrangements too.

In other words, it’s just me. I’m the only with something to complain about and, truth be told, I’m also probably the only one wasting mental energy on something as lame and as pointless as how we’re actually getting to Cathedral.

Oh well.

There being a time and a place for everything though, having had more than enough of dwelling on what we’re about to face, I think I’m better off thinking about things of no consequence anyway. The plan for what happens once we reach Cathedral set in concrete and signed off on, there’s nothing to be achieved by going over it any more times in my head anyway. Just as there’s no point in opening myself up to the plethora of dark and insidious doubts that I can feel lurking in the back of my mind. Given that there’s fuck all anyone can do about it now, if Schwarz are lying in wait for us, well, they’re lying in wait for us. Same goes for all the other variables that may yet be dragged into reality. If I get injured, I get injured. If…

Well, you know, what will be will be and all that. When all is said and done, all we can do is our best and hope that it’s enough.

And… Absolutely. That’s just how it is. We’re going to kick Infinity or Ewigkeit or whatever fucking name Takeda’s minions are going by tonight and then, together, we’re going to squash back into the Mercedes and go back to the embassy. Oh, and Free’s card was wrong. We’re not going to be betrayed and we’re *definitely* not going to incur any losses.

My mind made up, I won’t have it any other way.

Squirming -- damn seats! If we don’t get there shortly I have this scary feeling someone’s going to have to *peel* me out of the car -- I gingerly turn my head and watch the neon-lit nightscape fly past Aya’s window. Using a garishly lit Kawasaki dealership to get my bearings, I deduce that, assuming the traffic continues to play nice and doesn’t bring us to a grinding stop any time soon, it’s going to be at least another ten or fifteen minutes until we reach Cathedral.

Ten or fifteen *long* and fucking tedious minutes in which to run the risk of losing the positive vibe that I’ve fought so hard to achieve.

Wonderful. Just peachy, in fact.

If I didn’t think Aya’s only response would be to dig his elbow into my ribs I’d start up a litany of ‘are we there yet’s?’ just to keep myself occupied.

Annoyed -- understatement -- that the drive seems to be taking so long but knowing there’s not a damn thing I can do about it, I bite back a sigh and am about to go back to staring glumly at my knees when I notice, through the reflection in the window, that Aya is watching me through guarded eyes. His face still wearing the same blank expression that settled over it as we got dressed, I have no idea what he’s thinking and, not caring if he decides to take the gesture as an unasked for and unwarranted liberty, reach over and rest my hand lightly on his shoulder.

“It… It’s going to be okay, you’ll see,” I whisper, wishing both that I could wrap my arms around him and that I had some sort of idea what it is he’s really thinking. Although his reaction to having to face up to Takeda, who he *knows* is hell bent on capturing and enslaving him, has been nothing short of blasé, I can’t help but think he’s -- for the greater good and for the team -- bottling it up. Just as, proving once and for how Goddamn stubborn and alike they are, Chloé is feigning efficient indifference at the prospect of running into Schuldig. They’re just…

Determined. I guess.

Determined and too proud to be cowered.

I don’t know whether I should envy them or, for my piece of mind if not theirs, chloroform them and lock them in the trunk of our not-exactly-cool Mercedes and leave them there, safe and sound, until it’s all over.

“We’ve been through this,” Aya murmurs, looking down at his charm bracelet and, with a sigh, leaning a little closer to me. “Of course it’s going to be fine. Even if you can’t remember it, this is what we do.”

“I know,” I reply, reaching up and closing my hand around my pendant, the diamond ankh and white gold cross representing both a past that I’m beginning to suspect will be forever lost to me and a future of unwavering loyalty. It being the night for symbols and their heavily weighted meanings, no one’s escaped unadorned and Ken, like me, is wearing as an ankh earring that has direct ties to Kimura himself. He says that I collected it from some goon while I was going vigilante on Ewigkeit’s ass for what their boss did to Aya, but…

… God, I must have been good.

As with everything though, I only believe it because I know Ken would have nothing to gain from lying to me. I did this and I did that, and I’m capable of this, that, and many other things that remain out of the reach of my memory. I’m an assassin and a reformed playboy, an ex-detective and a flirt who used to break the hearts of the school girls who visited the Koneko by declaring that they were too young for me, I’m…

I’m…

I’m all of these things and more.

Ultimately though, regardless of the past that is denied to me, I’m just *me*.

And I’m both where I fit in and where I belong.

Right?

“It’s going to be fine,” Aya repeats softly, toying with the charms on his bracelet. “You’ll see. We’ll do what we have to do and then it will be all over.”

“Until next time,” Chloé interjects wearily from the front passenger seat. “It’ll be all over until the next time.”

“Ha! That’s fine, depressing talk from a person who’s just scored himself what is quite possibly the cutest little fan ever,” Ken replies, leaning forward and -- paying scant regard to the fact that I’m actually sitting next to him and it’s my face he’s sticking his elbow in -- tapping Chloé on the shoulder before pointing out the side window. “Look. Isn’t she just adorable? Now… Go on. Wave at her before you break her tiny heart.”

Craning my neck, I follow the line of Ken’s arm and look through the window into the backseat of the car parked alongside us at the lights. The sight that greets me is so, just as Ken said, adorable that I’m grinning from ear to ear even before Chloé’s turned to see it for himself. Dressed in what I assume to be a pair of pajamas, a small girl sits on the backseat, her face and both her hands pressed up against the window as, captivated for some reason by Chloé, she stares at him with obvious, wide-eyed delight. Her pajamas aren’t normal pajamas however and, despite their pastel pink color, give every indication of being some sort of cat suit as they come complete with paws in the form of mittens and a hooded top with just about the cutest pair of ears you’ve ever seen.

“Oh my God,” I laugh, following Ken’s lead and tapping Chloé on the shoulder as even Free starts to smile. “It’s true, isn’t it? You really *are* a cat magnet.”

“More like she’s never seen hair that color anywhere other than on her Barbie doll before,” Ken snickers, settling back in his seat. “Let’s face it, she’s probably sitting there imagining what Chloé would look like dressed as a princess.”

“Better than you would, that’s for sure,” Chloé retorts, smiling brightly at the little girl and placing his gloved hand flat against the window. “I’m equally as sure, however, Ken, that you’d do a more than adequate job of castle ogre…”

“You’d better believe it,” Ken mutters, a feral smile settling on his lips as he stares down at his bugnuks. 

“Oh, trust me, I believe it,” Chloé replies blithely, waving goodbye to his small fan as the lights change and the car she’s traveling in turns off. “I hate this,” he adds after a moment’s silence, his smile slipping as he goes back to staring glumly through the windscreen. “I hate that it’s personal and I hate knowing that innocent people have had to suffer on our account. It’s just not right. None of it.”

The urge to reply clearly not striking anyone, silence greets Chloé’s comments and he waits a couple of moments before shaking his head and sighing. “Please. Don’t all reply all once.”

“Of course I hate it,” Aya murmurs, pulling the cuff of his jacket over his charm bracelet and turning to gaze out the window. “God… I hate all of it. I hate everything that’s happened and I hate Takeda’s twisted justifications for why it’s perfectly okay to jerk around with people’s lives. I hate that Schwarz are involved and, before Ken decides to remind me, I hate that we haven’t been able to do anything for Omi. I hate feeling freaked out about Takeda even though, logically, I know he’s only a wannabe clone of Kimura. I hate that people I care about are hurting and I also hate that I haven’t been able to shake this stupid cold and… and that I may end up letting you all down. I… Hell! Will that do, Chloé, or do you really want me to go on?”

“I bet you’re real glad you asked now, huh?” Ken states, directing his comment to Chloé as, a concerned expression on his face, he looks past me to Aya. “I mean, way to go on opening up a depressing can of worms.”

“If you think about it, Ken, there’s really little difference between thinking it and verbalizing it,” Chloé replies, swiveling around and -- after glancing fleetingly at Ken -- settling his attention on Aya. “You won’t let anyone down,” he murmurs softly, reaching between the seats and placing his hand on Aya’s knee. “Sick or not, we still trust you, and we know that you won’t let us down. Isn’t that right, Yohji?”

“Uh… Of course we trust you,” I reply, nodding vehemently as my mind attempts to come to terms with the fact that we’re having this conversation *now* instead of back at the house where, really, it would have made far more sense to have had it. In fact, as we bustled around getting ready and perfecting our façades of professionalism, I’d even been expecting it. If not a pep talk per se then at the very least some sort of discussion that may have given some indication as to how everyone was really faring. 

But, no. 

We memorized blueprints, cleaned weapons, acted our hearts out to put on a ‘everything’s fine, no, really’ show for Yuki and Michel, got dressed, exchanged insults with Keegan, wasted time on preparing a meal that no one other than Ken could choke down and that, essentially, was it. If anyone had anything to say that wasn’t an order or a basic -- ‘where is…?’ ‘what have you done with…?’ ‘do you want…?’ -- question then they simply kept it to themselves. I came close to saying something a couple of times to Aya while we were alone getting dressed but, not wanting to rock the boat (the boat that, for all that I know, *always* operates in silent waters), always stopped short from actually opening my mouth.

Perhaps I’m just misguided or, alternatively completely clueless, but, I don’t know, the idea of everyone coming clean about their doubts when we’re only ten minutes away from our destination just doesn’t strike me as being all that of a good one.

Still, rather out than in, I suppose.

“See?” Chloé smiles, giving Aya’s knee a pat before turning back around to face the front of the car. “We trust you even if you don’t and, as you well know, the majority rules.”

“You have no idea how much that fills with me with confidence,” Aya mutters, sitting up a little straighter and closing his fingers around the hilt of his katana. “I… I don’t believe in making promises that I can’t guarantee being able to keep, but… Hear me. I will do everything in my power to not let any of you down.”

“And no one could ask for more than that,” I reply lightly, wishing once again that I could just take Aya in my arms and not ever let him go. “As you said though, everything’s going to turn out fine. We’re going to find Omi alive, Takeda’s going to kick it without a fight, and Schwarz, if they survive the night at all, are going to fuck off back to the hell that spawned ‘em. As an added bonus, if we’re really lucky, Keegan might meet with an unfortunate incident that will neither kill nor harm him too greatly yet will cause such a crushing dint to his ego that he’ll be so mortified that he’ll remain in hiding until it’s time for Rosary to leave.” 

“There are times when I have to confess to really liking the way your mind operates,” Free states quietly, speaking for the first time since, without so much as a raised eyebrow, he took the car keys from Chloé -- who usually stakes proprietary rights over the task of driving and who really, *really* can’t be feeling all that well -- and agreed to drive. “In particular I like the idea of Keegan’s ego receiving a crushing blow.”

“I don’t actually think you’d get any arguments from any of us in regards to Keegan getting the bitch slapping he so thoroughly deserves,” Ken mutters. “Ignoring the irony of this statement, how Faith can be so normal when his brother is such a prick is astonishing.”

“Unfortunately we don’t get to choose who we’re related to,” Chloé murmurs, shrugging. “But, please, let’s not speak of Keegan.”

“Works for me,” Aya sighs, shifting away from me and leaning his head against the cool glass of the window. 

“Oh… dear,” Chloé groans, doing his bit for guaranteeing a change in topic and pointing at something through the windscreen. “Takeda *really* can’t help himself, can he?”

Following the line of Chloé’s arm, I take one look at the red outline of the huge phoenix being beamed into the night sky above Cathedral and am immediately struck so dumb by the sheer pretentiousness -- not to mention extreme tackiness -- of it that I can’t think of a single thing to say. 

Just…

No. Forget it. Some things just aren’t worthy of even passing comment on.

“Wanker,” Ken snorts, his expression contemptuous as he trails his index finger along the razor sharp blades of his bugnuks. “Taking that piece of… art… as a preview though, I can’t wait to see what he’s done with the rest of Cathedral. Who knows, it might even be worse than Cathedral’s original opening spectacular and, well, if that wouldn’t be an achievement to be proud of then I don’t know what would. Aya, surely you remember…”

“I remember and don’t want to talk about it,” Aya interrupts, turning his head just far enough to shoot Ken a warning look. “I would also prefer it you wouldn’t talk about it either.”

“Yes boss,” Ken mutters sullenly, slumping down lower in his seat and looking as though he’d like to kick the back of the driver’s seat in an attempt to get Free to drive faster. “Why’s this fucking taking so long, huh? It feels like we’ve been in the car for freakin’ ages.”

“We’ll be there soon enough,” Chloé replies, the flat tone of his voice broadcasting it loud and clear that this isn’t something he’s all too happy about. “Don’t be too impatient, Ken. Just… enjoy… the time you have.”

“I’ll enjoy myself when we’ve got Omi back and Takeda’s lying in a body bag,” Ken retorts, leaning his head back and staring at roof of the car. “Until then, however… Well, let’s just say that I’m in the mood for a fight and the quicker we get there the better.” 

“Then you will be pleased to hear that the end is now in sight,” Free states, turning the car down a side street and bringing it to a smooth stop. “As you can see by the line of cars before us, we are now officially part of the queue to gain entrance to Cathedral.”

“Woo-fucking-hoo,” Ken mutters under his breath, his hand reflexively reaching for the door handle. “Now, who’s for abandoning the car and just striding straight on in there?”

“We’re sticking to Singapura’s plan,” Aya snaps, reaching behind my neck and snagging his fingers in the sleeve of Ken’s top. “So, sit still, think happy thoughts and, for the sake of the headache I can already feel forming, keep your Goddamn mouth shut.”

“You couldn’t stop me, you know,” Ken scowls, jerking his arm away from Aya’s hand and pressing himself up tight against the door. “If I wanted to, I’d…”

“Ken, please,” I sigh, leaning forward and attempting to do a count of the cars queued up in front of us. “Aya’s right in that we need to stick to Sing’s plan. Now, I know you’re anxious to kick some ass but, sorry, you’re just going to have to wait until the fifteen or so cars that are blocking our path are through the gates first.”

“You’re as bad as he is,” Ken responds, his eyes flashing with agitation as he gestures angrily at Aya. “In fact, what’s the bet that neither of you even want to be here! You’re shitting yourself ‘cos you can’t remember how to fight and he’s freaking out over coming face to…”

“That’s enough!” Free exclaims, turning around and giving Ken the full benefit of one of his scariest -- ‘and don’t for a second make the mistake of thinking that I’m joking’ -- looks. “If you are so impatient to be inside Cathedral then by all means go. I will not stop you and nor will I allow any of the others to impede your flight either.”

“There has to be a ‘but’ in there somewhere,” Ken mutters hesitantly, squirming under the intensity of Free’s gaze.

“If you go you will be on your own,” Free replies mildly, turning back around and, seeing that the queue has moved, rolling the car forward. “You will be on your own and, regardless of what happens, you will remain on your own. It is your choice.”

“Free, I…”

“Given that he’s more than proven himself capable of speaking for himself,” Free states, cutting Chloé off, “please do not feel as though you have to speak up on his behalf.”

“Free’s right,” Aya murmurs, shrugging. “If you want to go, Ken, then go. No one’s going to stop you.”

“I…” Taking his hand away from the door handle, Ken slumps back in his seat, a sulky expression on his face. “You’re all bastards, you know that, don’t you? Cold hearted, unfeeling bastards at that.”

“Sticks and stones,” I retort, flashing Ken a ‘no hard feelings’ smile. “Now, come on, as Aya said, think happy thoughts. We’ll be swarming all over Cathedral before you know it.”

His only acknowledgment of my statement being a noncommittal grunt, Ken turns his head and gazes out the window. I think about searching for something else to say to him but give up when Free rolls the car further up the line, bringing us in sight of both Cathedral’s imposing wrought iron gates and deliberately shabby looking and graffiti-covered tin fence. At over ten feet in height and emblazoned with official looking ‘Keep Out’ and ‘Trespassers Will Be Prosecuted’ signs, the fence looks as though it would be perfectly at home surrounding a construction site. As ugly and, well, common as the fence is though, it does a good job of protecting Cathedral from prying eyes and I wouldn’t be at all surprised if there were people who passed it every day who wouldn’t be able to tell you that there was a massive church hidden behind it. The graffiti, in keeping with Takeda’s less than subtle nature, is scrawled in red paint and talks of the ‘second coming’. ‘He Is Here!’ ‘He Walks Amongst You!’

Sighing, I look away from the fence and focus on the tail lights of Faith’s BMW as it waits in line in front of us. “Well, here’s to hoping we haven’t overestimated Faith’s abilities and that he gets us in,” I murmur, mentally crossing my fingers as, the queue moving along nicely, we follow the BMW closer to the gate. “If not then we’re…”

“He will get us in,” Chloé replies curtly, his eyes fixed, like mine are, on the BMW. “If there’s one thing you don’t have to worry about it’s Faith. He said he could get us in and, watch, he will.”

“He’d better,” Ken mutters, his whole body tensing as the BMW glides up to the gate and Faith leans out the window to talk to the guard on check-in duty. Takeda’s missive about costumes being non-negotiable stretching down to the hired help, the guard is dressed as a Ringwraith and when he extends a skeletal finger to indicate that we can follow the BMW in, Ken gives a triumphant whoop of joy.

“Yes! Go Faith!” he exclaims, already unbuckling his seatbelt and fidgeting with uncontained, adrenaline-fuelled excitement. “Now the fun really starts.”

“You have a fucked definition of fun,” Aya murmurs, giving Cathedral a dismissive look through the windscreen before returning his gaze out the side window. “Here we are though,” he adds dully as, following the direction of yet another Ringwraith, Free parks the car next to the BMW. “Ready or not…”

“We’re as ready as we’ll ever be,” I reply, turning around and gazing at Cathedral through the back window. As Gothic as only an old European church *can* be, Cathedral’s striking façade is half disguised by scaffolding that, like the fence, appears to have been deliberately aged. Spotlights hidden in the ground around it highlight and cast the scaffolding in shadow and, instead of detracting from the church’s magnificence it somehow adds to it. “Dear God… Just look at it. I… I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“You have, actually,” Aya replies quietly, waiting for Finlay to finish climbing out of the back seat of the BMW before opening his door. “You just can’t remember it.”

“Come off it, Aya,” Ken grins, opening his door with such force that it nearly bangs into the silver Porsche that’s pulled into the park next to us. “This may be bad, but it’s not in the same league as the holographic palm trees and living, breathing camels that we encountered last time we just happened to be here.”

“It’s bad enough,” Aya retorts, retrieving his katana from by his feet and climbing gracefully out of the car.

Deciding to get out of the same side as Aya, I start to follow him when Ken, his impatience apparently stretching to include my movements as well, grabs the back of my coat and all but hauls me out the door. Not, oddly enough, having been expecting this, Ken’s… ‘help’… causes me to very nearly fall on my ass and for the snooty looking woman -- who, incidentally, should shoot the person who told her that she had the perfect figure to pull off the Morticia Addams look -- from the Porsche to make ‘tsking’ sounds of disgust.

“Bite me,” Ken states, giving the woman a baleful smile as he helps me to my feet.

“Animal,” the woman hisses, pushing past Ken and hurrying, as fast as her spike heeled shoes will allow, after the Porsche’s male driver.

“We can’t take you anywhere, can we?” Chloé murmurs, walking around the back of the Mercedes and waiting for the rest of us to join him. “Why you may have forgotten this already, we’re wanting to stay unnoticed for as long as we possibly can.”

“She was a dragon,” Ken mutters, shrugging insolently and, paying scant heed to the cars as they continue to pour in, stalking off towards Cathedral. “Well? What are you all waiting for, an invitation written in dodo’s blood?”

“Does he usually have a death wish?” Finlay queries, sidling up and looking after Ken.

“He has his moments,” Aya sighs, giving my arm a squeeze as he goes to catch up with Ken. “If you’ll excuse me, I think I’d better go and remind him that we actually have to wait for Faith.”

“Well, seeing as he’s right behind us,” Finlay states, linking his arm around mine and pulling me after Aya, “I say that we might as well all go, don’t you?”

“Bring it on,” I murmur weakly, glancing over my shoulder to ensure that everyone is actually coming along behind us. As though sensing my eyes on him, Chloé straightens his shoulders and, leaving Free to walk alongside Jin, hurries over to join us.

“Everything’s going to be fine,” he states reassuringly as, with an almost elegant hip and shoulder movement, he shifts Finlay away from me and falls in step between us. “You’ll see. It’s going to be *easy*.”

“If Ken has an off definition of fun then I think you’ve got an equally as odd definition of easy,” I reply, shaking my head and wishing that I’d had the forethought to light up a smoke the second I got out of the car. Given that another ten steps will see us reaching the edge of the gray -- as opposed to red -- carpet leading directly into Cathedral’s front door though, I think it’s just a tad too late to start one now. Unfortunately.

“Your cigarettes will still be waiting for you when all of this is over,” Chloé responds, effortlessly reading my mind and frowning both at the gray carpet and the tasteless display to its left. “To hell with the threat he poses to Aya, ridding the world of this idiot will benefit everyone,” he adds, gesturing at the hole in the ground that’s meant to represent an open grave and the white marble, ankh-shaped tombstone that stands above it. “Honestly, have you ever seen anything so overdone and, quite frankly, ludicrous before?”

“The man’s clearly got some pretty serious issues,” Finlay replies, laughing. “Check out the claw marks in the grass. I think we’re supposed to be gullible enough to believe Kimura himself managed to drag himself out of the grave.”

“As Ken is so fond of saying, there’s just no help for it, he really is a wanker,” I mutter, looking away from the mock grave and gazing upwards. Catching the sight of movement out of the corner of my eye, I’m somewhat startled to see what looks to be a man wearing a white coat climbing sure-footedly up the scaffolding and am about to point him out to Chloé when he disappears behind a spire. Not wanting give anyone any reason to feel that I’d possibly been hallucinating, I decide to put him down -- despite the complete out-of-place-ness of his white coat -- to being part of Takeda’s performing freak show and push all thoughts of him out of my mind.

“Wanker doesn’t even begin to come close,” Chloé replies drily, raising an eyebrow at Aya’s hand clutched around Ken’s arm as we come to a stop next to where they’ve been waiting for us. “I see you’re having to go for the hands on approach,” he continues, lightly touching Aya’s shoulder.

“It’s either this or I break one of his ankles,” Aya mutters, giving Ken a shake as he pulls him off the carpet in order to let a couple dressed as the albino, dreadlocked Twins from the second Matrix movie pass.

“Man, you are *so* pissing me off,” Ken complains, shaking off Aya’s hand as, stepping on the sacred grass clearly being a no-no, yet another Ringwraith materializes and starts to advance towards us. “This fucking pussy-footing around that we’re doing is just wrong! We should either be sneaking in or, if we have to go through the front door, we should be freakin’ in there already.”

“Smile nice for the pretty Ringwraith,” Aya hisses, scowling at Ken as he once again grabs him by the arm, “and just remember that if we’re sprung now then it’ll be on your head.”

“It’ll be okay,” Chloé whispers as, something telling him he’s needed elsewhere, the Ringwraith turns around and heads back in the direction he came from. “Ken, I know you don’t want to hear this but you’ve *got* to stick to the plan. Faith was able to intervene this time but once we’re inside you’re going to have to be more alert.”

“Whatever,” Ken mutters, pulling away from Aya and nodding at Faith as he and Keegan walk up to join us. “Thanks, by the way.”

“Don’t mention it,” Faith replies, quickly looking us over and, I think, doing a head count. “Okay. If you’re ready to go then, please, follow me,” he continues, watching as Cathedral’s big wooden doors open to allow both the Twins through and a loud blast of music out.

“Ah, the goth-by-number sounds of Evanescence,” Finlay smirks, clapping me for some reason on the shoulder. “Takeda’s mind blowing originality strikes yet again.”

“I happen to like Evanescence,” Keegan scowls, his eyes widening as the doors once again glide open and a drunk, if not completely paralytic woman staggers out. Dressed in an antique black lace dress that’s cinched tightly at the waist by a medieval looking leather corset and with flowing bright green hair, it’s clear that she’s meant to be a witch of some description and this, going on the way he’s cackling to himself, tickles Keegan’s malicious little funny bone.

“Hey, Rosebud,” he sneers, draping himself over Chloé and pointing at the woman as she falls to her knees on the grass and starts to vomit. “It looks like your long lost sister is feeling a little under the weather.”

An expression of surprise settling over Ken’s face, he looks over at the woman and shrugs. “I didn’t know that Chloé had…”

“He doesn’t,” Aya snaps, cutting Ken abruptly off and advancing towards Keegan with a look of sheer hatred in his eyes. “As for you, and I don’t care how much help you may have been, when this is over I don’t want you coming back to the embassy. Got that? Go find the person who gave you all those despicable love bites and see if they’re up for round two. Christ, I don’t care what you fucking do so long as it’s nowhere the hell near me. Do I make myself clear?”

“It’s true then what they say about redheads having foul tempers,” Keegan snickers, stepping back from Chloé and toying with the front of his sheer black shirt. While the rest of us are dressed -- in mission clothes -- for work, Keegan, as usual, is dressed solely to impress both himself and, in his mind, his adoring public. Around his neck, as though it’s got every right to be there, he’s still wearing the patent leather collar with the diamond ankh and, my idea of what passes for common decency clearly at odds with his, I just have to marvel at his arrogance. “Don’t worry though,” he continues smugly, his hand slipping under his shirt and caressing the love bite covering his left nipple, “I have every intention of being with my friend when this is over. If you behave yourself I might even introduce you to him.”

“Get. Fucked,” Aya grinds out, glancing at Faith and giving him a ‘get a move on’ prod. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”

“Yes, let’s,” Faith murmurs, his expression troubled as he looks at his brother. “Keegan, while I’m not going to interfere in Aya’s decision, I’d like to have a word with you before you go and meet your friend, okay?”

“Whatever,” Keegan mutters, flicking his hair back and staring through bright eyes at Cathedral. “Come on then, while the night is still young.”

“If no one has anything else they’d like to say, please, follow me,” Faith states, his gaze straying to Chloé before, with a decisive sigh, he turns around and starts to stride Cathedral’s doors.

“See you in hell,” Ken murmurs, giving my cheek a fleeting kiss before bounding enthusiastically after Faith.

“Mmm… See you in hell,” I echo, shaking my head at the way a casual observer could be mistaken for thinking Ken was actually enjoying this. “Aya…”

“Just stick to the plan,” Aya replies, looking me in the eye and smiling wanly. “It’s all right, Yohji. No one’s going to leave you behind this time.”

“I…” Taken aback by Aya’s comment and unable to think of any sort of relevant response, I nod and on legs that are sending panicked messages to my brain that, really, they’d very much prefer to be heading in the opposite direction, thank you very much, begin to walk towards Cathedral.

“Coming from Aya, that’s as good as a promise too,” Chloé murmurs in my ear as he trails after me. “If things seem to be going bad, just remember that and you’ll be okay.”

A response to Chloé’s small piece of advice being no more forthcoming than one was for Aya, I remain silent and just concentrate on walking, on putting one foot after the other. Faith’s ‘old Jedi mind trick’ working on the two Ringwraiths manning the door as easily as it did on the one at the gate, getting into Cathedral proves to be as easy as everyone said it would be and before I really know it I’m standing in the thick of the club with my eyes doing their very best to pop right out of my head. 

And…

Fuck.

While I doubt any of us thought for a second that it would be possible, what’s going on inside Cathedral makes everything outside pale, whimpering in defeat, in comparison. Wanting to take it all in, I slowly turn around, my mouth, I’m sure of it, gaping open like an awestruck tourist. Directly in front us, where, common sense dictates, an alter should be, is a wrought iron cage complete with its very own, very decrepit looking fallen angel. Dressed only in a short, dirty white linen kilt and with massive white wings sprouting from his shoulder blades, the ‘angel’ appears to have been both imprisoned and tortured for payment -- penance -- for unknown crimes. Fresh welts crisscross his toned torso and his wings too seem to have borne the brunt of the torturers’ rage as the feathers are not only stained with blood and bedraggled looking but, in some spots they’re actually threadbare. My sense of unease, even though I know he’s only an actor being paid to put on a show, grows as I watch the ‘angel’ slowly and with obvious effort paces the length of his cage, his haunted face and the hunch of his shoulders all screaming ‘help me’. If he didn’t have red hair, the very same red as Aya’s to be exact, I probably wouldn’t mind so much, but because he does I’m unable to escape the dreadful realization that perhaps Takeda’s original plans had been to have Aya playing the role of trapped and dominated ‘angel’.

Forcing myself to look away, to move on, I see through the throng of the elaborately costumed crowd that angels are something of a reoccurring theme. While those with white wings appear beaten and have either a collar around their necks or a ball and chain around their ankles, those with black wings strut around in their black leather pants and matching armbands as though they own the place. All, interestingly, look as though they should be modeling for body building magazines and this tells me that, like the Ringwraiths, they’re most likely employed as guards and that, once Faith is otherwise engaged, I’ll be wise to stay out of their way.

The wall to our left is dominated by a bank of wide-screened television sets all playing a different black and white horror movies while the wall to our right, along with housing Cathedral’s original confessional booth, is lit up with thousands of candles in gilt holders. Not liking how much they remind me of the garage and what happened last night, I hurriedly turn my attention to Takeda’s honorable, invited guests as they dance, laugh, and drink as though they haven’t a care in the world. Skimping nothing on their costumes, they look as though they should all be playing extras in either an Anne Rice adaptation or a club scene from whatever the latest hip and trendy vampire movie is. White faces with crimson lips and heavily kohled eyes mingle with faces hidden by masks or intricately made-up scarring. Because everyone looks so alike, they could be anyone. Takeda could walk right up to me and I probably wouldn’t even recognize him until it was too late.

And… Shit! Just how the fuck are we supposed to find in the midst of so many, clone-like people? A needle in a fucking haystack had nothing on it.

“You’ve all heard of Cirque du Soleil,” Chloé states loudly as, bowing grandly he gestures us further into Cathedral, “well, welcome to Cirque de Purgatoire.”

“This is going to be fucking impossible,” Ken mutters, spinning around and glowering at the crowd. “I mean, fuck! Unless Faith can get a location on Takeda we’re going to be fucked.”

Tugging on one of his eartails in a way that I don’t take to be a good sign at all, Faith gazes around the club and frowns. “I… I can try,” he replies hesitantly, “but I don’t know if I’ll have any luck. Half of these people are off their head and that makes getting a lock on someone in particular even harder.”

“Screw trying to find Takeda,” Ken retorts, turning his back on Aya as the redhead shoots him an incredulous look. “Just focus on seeing whether you can find any sign of Omi. Takeda can wait.”

“Takeda can’t wait at…” The rest of his response dying on his lips, Aya falls suddenly silent and stares through wide eyes at Chloé as, out of nowhere, two hands slip between his arms and start to stroke the front of his coat. Like Aya, I know that I should do something -- although what that something should entail is anyone’s guess -- but, feeling as though I’m rooted to the spot, just stare at the hands as though transfixed.

Paling, Chloé looks down at the hands, which just happen to have vicious looking chrome nails attached to the fingers, and freezes. “A-Aya…”

“Not very alert, are you?” a familiar sounding female voice laughs as the hands are pulled back through Chloé’s arms and Singapura steps around him to join us. Dressed as a version of Catwoman that would be more at home in a pornographic video than on the big screen, she’s wearing a skin tight black latex catsuit that only *just* laces up over her breasts and the kinkiest pair of knee high boots that I’ve ever seen. Triangular, black furry ears attached to a headband and a black, glittery eye-mask completes the outfit. Behind her and dressed as the vampire hunter, Blade, in a buckle intensive black leather coat, stands Bengal.

“Been told that you’re a bitch lately?” I state, not wanting to appear rude and making a point of speaking directly to Sing’s face as opposed to her breasts. “Honestly, Sing, you could have given poor Chloé a heart attack, and then where would we have been?”

“Well, while I don’t know about you, I would have been embarrassed and ruing the idiotic part of my brain that told me sneaking up on him had been a good idea,” Singapura replies, patting Chloé’s arm and giving his cheek a quick, apologetic kiss. “No hard feelings?”

“No, no hard feelings,” Chloé responds, shaking his head and looking bemused. “You look… ah…”

“The word I think you’re searching for is slutty,” Sing interrupts with a smile as, looking around to ensure that we’re all there, she gestures us closer. “Don’t worry. Given that I’ve been groped more times tonight than I have in the last ten years, I *know*. Now, enough fun and games, I’m glad that I got to you before you separated as I’ve got some news, some *good* news, that’s going to change a couple of things. As we’d hoped…”

A distinctly abrupt sensation of a man crashing drunkenly into my back causing me to miss Singapura’s news, I turn around to share a few choice insults with him just as he stumbles into Ken, almost knocking him to the floor. Grabbing Ken just in time, I help him steady himself and we roll our eyes at each bother before turning back to Singapura. To my dismay, although the incident with the drunk couldn’t have taken more than twenty seconds, she’s already gone and everyone else is staring towards the front of the church as though they’re all being operated by an omniscient power. 

The old adage ‘if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em’ springing to mind, I shrug at Ken and glance towards the cage containing the redheaded angel. Leaning on the cage and looking… resplendent… in low slung, black leather pants held up by a silver ankh adorned belt and a long, ankle length black suede coat with what looks to be either feathers or shaggy looking fur around the cuffs and running down both sides of the front, and with his chest bare, stands Schuldig. Appearing both amused and unbothered by our presence, he slips his hands in the pockets of his pants, pulling them further down and exposing more of his lean body. A love bite the color of a fresh bruise marks his right hipbone and around his neck he wears a collection of rosary beads, one of which, color wise at least, appears to be the twin of Chloé’s.

“Christ, just who the fuck is he supposed to be,” Ken complains, returning Schuldig’s wave of greeting with the bird, “Jim fucking Morrison or some other dead seventies rock star, or what?”

“I was leaning more towards ‘fashion victim’, myself,” Chloé replies hollowly, his hand closing reflexively around the gold cross he’s wearing as he forces himself to meet Schuldig’s arrogant, searing gaze.

“You never did have any taste,” Keegan states, shouldering Chloé out of his way and staring at Schuldig with a look of delight shining in his eyes. “I think he looks stunning.”

“And I think your brains are in your ass,” Ken retorts, his eyes trained on Schuldig as his body tenses. “Okay… Now that that bastard’s put in an appearance, what’s the plan?”

“Unless he makes the first move, we stick to the original plan,” Aya replies, his hand tightening around the hilt of his katana as he too goes on ‘alert’. “You all heard Singapura. Things have changed and we have to…”

“Watch and learn,” Keegan finishes, interrupting Aya as he starts to move further into the crowd. Pausing by Faith, he whispers something in his brother’s ear and caresses his cheek. That done, he glances over his shoulder, shrugs, and continues on his way while, Schuldig momentarily forgotten about, we all stare after him.

“Just what the fuck was all that about?” Ken queries, tearing his gaze away from Keegan to glare at Faith. “What’s your stupid brother up to now?”

“I…” Shaking his head and looking flustered, Faith takes a hesitant step after his brother. “I… I’m sorry, but I have to go after him. Jin, Finlay, you stay with the others.”

“What? No!” Finlay exclaims, grabbing Faith by the shoulder and spinning him around. “If he’s got some fool idea to take Schuldig on then you need all the help you can get.”

“You have to stay here and ensure that everyone gets out,” Faith responds, placing his hand over Finlay’s and giving it a squeeze before pushing it off his shoulder and turning around. “Besides, he’s my brother and, as such, my problem.”

“Don’t worry, Finlay…” Taking a deep breath, Chloé, after sharing a look with Aya that I can’t quite read, starts to walk after Faith. “I’ll be with him…”

His eyes flashing with agitation, Aya glances at me, gives a small, apologetic looking shrug and starts to move after Chloé. “The rest of you, stick to the plan,” he states firmly, ignoring the blank look of surprise on Ken’s face. “And don’t forget that we’ve now got a time frame to stick to.”

“They’re all as crazy as each other,” Ken exclaims, quite literally bouncing up and down with impatience as he watches Faith, Chloé, and Aya get swallowed up the crowd. “I mean, what the fuck do they think they’re doing? And where’s Keegan?”

“Keegan, if he has his own motives, may have altered his appearance to blend in,” Free replies, both the tone of his voice and expression about as matter-of-fact as they come. “Having made their decision, the others are now not our concern. As both Singapura and Aya stated, we have a timetable to keep and must get a move on.”

“But…” Feeling as though I’m a couple of chapters back from the page everyone else is on, I give up trying to track Aya through the crowd and stare at Free with what I just know has to be a helpless looking expression on my face. Faith going after Keegan, along with both Chloé going after Faith and Aya going after Chloé, I can understand, but Keegan giving every indication of going after Schuldig I can’t even *pretend* to comprehend. As for whatever it was that Sing had to tell us, well, I missed that entirely.

“We have not the time for questions,” Free states, taking charge and nodding in the direction of the confessional booth. “Ken, Yohji, you take the entrance to the basement on the right while I take the left. Jin, Finlay, you’re in charge of getting everyone out.”

“But…”

“Uh-uh! No time for buts,” Ken mutters, grabbing hold of the front of my coat and pulling me into the crowd. “Come on. You heard Free. We’ve got to get a move on.”

“But…” Fuck! I need answers and I need answers *now*! “Who are we supposed to be looking for?” I query, prying Ken’s fingers away from my coat and having to jog to keep up with him. “Not to mention I have no freakin’ idea what it was that Singapura had to tell us.”

“Join the club in relation to Sing,” Ken retorts, deftly sidestepping a man dressed as the Phantom of the Opera and leaving me to bang straight into him. “As for who we’re after? God, like you even have to ask. If we encounter Takeda then so be it, but it’s really Omi that I’m here for.”

Muttering an apology to the Phantom, I shove him out of the way and, quickening my pace, catch up with Ken. “But I thought…”

“Screw Takeda,” Ken interrupts, not even slowing his determined stride towards the confessional booth as, just as they did at the garage, the wall of candles flare brightly, causing those not already out of their skulls to stop what they’re doing and stare at it worriedly. “I’m here for Omi.”

“But…”

A shrill, piercing scream drowning out both the bass heavy music and the rest of my no doubt futile question, I jerk my head around and search the crowd for the source of it. My mind has just come to grips with the fact that the banshee-like screaming is coming from Singapura, who’s running around desperately grabbing at anyone she can reach, when, the back of his coat alight and burning even brighter than the candles, Bengal lurches up behind her. Begging for help and flailing his arms around, he crashes into one of the angels, inadvertently setting his wings aflame and, in general, causing complete pandemonium. Fear of getting burnt making them unwilling to help, people start to run around in all directions. Feeling as though I should help Bengal, I turn around to head towards him when, once again taking matters into his own hands, Ken grabs my coat and pulls me backwards.

“It’s part of the diversion,” he hisses, looking at me as though I’m some sort of idiot. “Bengal’s coat would be one of those stunt coats and I can tell you now that he’ll be fine.”

“If you say so,” I mutter, tugging my coat away from Ken’s hand and, making a concentrated effort not to look behind me, following him across to the confessional booth which, or so we’re counting on anyway, is hiding the door that leads to the basement.

“Forgive me Father for I have sinned,” Ken grins, coming to a stop in front of the door that leads into the booth and mock genuflecting. Standing back, he then winks at me and, in a move that owes a lot to hours spent watching cop shows, kicks the door in. “Aaah… That was fun,” he adds, wrenching aside the debris of the now mangled beyond all recognition door and stalking into the booth.

“If I didn’t want to hold on to my tenuously held belief that you’re *not* completely insane, I’d almost say you were enjoying this,” I reply, trailing after him into the booth and promptly encountering the decidedly odd sight of Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz giving the Crow a blowjob. Although I know it’s neither polite nor overly becoming of me, I can’t help but stare, my ability to register surprise at the events of this evening clearly not having yet deserted me.

“Fuckin’ perverts,” the Crow snarls as Dorothy, looking ever-so-sweet and wholesome in her blue gingham dress, continues slurping away. “Go on, fuck off.”

“It appears we’re not in Kansas anymore, Toto,” Ken drawls, reaching for Dorothy’s shoulder but stopping short of actually touching her. “Okay you two, we’re actually security and, unless you want to burn with the rest of this place, it’s really time for *you* to fuck off.”

“What are you talking about?” the Crow asks suspiciously. “You don’t look like security.”

“If you got your brain out of your pants for a second and smelt the air you’d be able to work out for yourself that Cathedral’s going up in flames,” I interject helpfully, looking past the twisted couple and noting with relief that the Crow is leaning against our much hoped for door. “Now, if you wouldn’t mind taking your… show… outside you’d really be a lot better off.”

“Like, whatever,” the Crow grunts, grabbing Dorothy by her hair and pulling her to her feet. “Come on, babe, let’s leave these two assholes to it.”

“Love you, too,” Ken retorts, rolling his eyes as Dorothy, who has the vacant look of someone truly fucked up on drugs, gazes adoringly at her newfound love for the night. “Go on. *Move*!”

“I’m gonna remember this,” the Crow mutters, deliberately giving me a forceful shove as he drags Dorothy, half stumbling and giggling away merrily to herself, out of the booth. “Fuckin’ nazis.”

“You know, if we didn’t have to get through that door there,” I murmur, shaking my head as Ken kicks the door in and disappears through it, “I think I could have quite happily left him to burn.”

“Tell me about it,” Ken replies softly as I join him on the top of the dimly lit stairwell. “What a charmer, huh?”

“Definitely a charmer,” I whisper, gazing down the stairs and knowing that the time for facetious comments is well and truly over. “Well, here we go…”

“Whatever we find down there,” Ken responds, lightly touching my arm as he starts down the stairs, “don’t waste time thinking about it, just *do*. That’s all the advice I can give you. If attacked, just fight. Don’t forget we’ve got a goal and, apparently, a time frame to stick to…”

“Mmm… I know…” We were also meant to have Faith tell us if he could sense Omi anywhere in Cathedral but, not wanting to risk upsetting Ken’s belief that he’s going to find his friend in the next few minutes, decide to keep this particular fact of life to myself.

Reaching the bottom of the stairs, Ken repeats his current favorite trick of kicking the door in and, without so much as glancing at each other, we run through it together. As was bound to happen, the room we find ourselves in is full of black clad guards lounging about on a sofa and sitting around a table playing cards. Possibly more shocked by our arrival than we are by finding ourselves in the middle of the lion’s den, they’re too slow in their attack and we make short work of neutralizing them. Ken, his bugnuks dripping with blood, crows triumphantly when it’s over but, the sheer force of the adrenaline that’s now pumping through my veins adding up to leave me feeling slightly dazed and just a little bit ill, I’m unable to share in his sense of victory. I want to, given that I managed to escape the encounter unscathed, but my worry about what the others may be facing growing by the second, it’s just beyond me.

We may be good, and we may be going to win, but there’s no escaping that we’re in shit. The plan’s been blown totally off kilter, we’re running around Cathedral’s basement effectively blind, and…”

“Eight down, God alone knows how many to go,” Ken mutters, wiping his bugnuks on his pants and kicking the gun away from the injured guard lying at his feet. “Come on, I heard one of them say something into his com about the guard on the morgue needing to be changed over.”

“The morgue?” I echo, sweeping my gaze over all the crumpled guards and ensuring for myself that they’re not going to get up anytime soon before running over to the door that leads out of the room and following Ken through it. “Do I even want to know?”

“Probably not,” Ken replies, his eyes darting from left to right as he quickly runs a threat assessment of the cold gray corridor we’re in. “Remember what Jin discovered though, that Cathedral is built on what remains of the Sisters of Mercy hospital. He also, if you think back, pointed out the location of the morgue. I think it was somewhere down this corridor.”

“And you’re thinking that because it needs a guard that it might be where they’re keeping Omi?” I query, doing a mental count of the six doors I can see leading off the cold, gray, and very hospital like corridor and hoping that they’re not all hiding fresh battalions of guards.

“It’s worth a try,” Ken murmurs, a brief, unguarded expression of hope settling over his face as he starts to move silently across to the first door. “He… He has to be somewhere.”

“Of course he does,” I respond, slipping past Ken and, because it looks just so damn easy, aiming a flying kick at the second door. Underestimating my own strength, I crash through the door and land heavily in the middle of the room, pain radiating up my leg. Luckily, for my pride as much as my safety, the room is empty save for a collection of cardboard boxes and, turning around, I limp back out into the corridor, my door kicking days having been already numbered.

“I think I’ve found the morgue, don’t you?” Ken states quietly, standing in front of a pair of swinging doors with glass windows in them to allow people to always see who’s coming and going. “No guard though…”

“Maybe he’s gone to join the fracas elsewhere,” I murmur, peering through the window and suppressing a shudder at the sight of the two walls kitted out with floor-to-ceiling stainless steel body cubicles that greets me. As if they weren’t bad enough though, an autopsy table, just like the ones you see on those forensic pathology shows, is set up in the middle of the room. Instead of a body being laid out on it though, there’s a man’s black, pinstriped suit, complete with crisp white shirt, highly polished black dress shoes, and small gold cufflinks. “Check out the suit… Creepy, huh?”

“This whole Godforsaken place is creepy,” Ken mutters, pushing the doors open and stepping hesitantly into the scrupulously clean yet at the same time clearly abandoned looking morgue. Walking over to the autopsy table, he picks the suit jacket up and stares at it closely for a few seconds before throwing it forcefully to the ground. “It’s Omi’s size,” he growls, kicking the jacket further away and staring, his expression one of mounting horror, at the dozens of body bays. “Oh dear God… He wouldn’t… You don’t think…”

“There’s only one way to find out,” I reply, not liking the idea of inspecting all the bays one little bit but forcing myself, for Ken’s sake, to open the one closest to me. Finding it empty, I slam the door shut and move on to the next one. “Come on. If it’s got to be done it’s got to be done.”

“What if he’s…” Looking at me beseechingly, Ken reluctantly takes a hold of a handle and both slowly and cautiously, pulls it open. “Do you think…”

“If he’s dead, why would they have a suit laid out like that, huh?” I reply, hoping somewhat adamantly that he doesn’t leap to the immediate, some might even say, *obvious* conclusion that it’s a burial suit. “Now, move! We haven’t got all night.”

“You’re right,” Ken responds, squaring his shoulders and flashing me a grateful smile. “I bet I can open ‘em quicker than you.”

Relieved that his mood seems to have already picked up, I smile, mentally cross my fingers, and nod. “You’re on.”

Although there was a part of me –- the part that simply couldn’t comprehend the sheer abhorrent evilness that would go in to trapping someone on a slab in a morgue -- that hoped we wouldn’t, that we were just going through the motions because we knew had to, we find Omi in the second last bay we had left to open. Well, that is, *Ken* finds him and I immediately know that he’s been found by the anguished sound of horror, not relief, that comes rushing out of his mouth.

Hurrying over to Ken, I gaze down at the gaunt, only the slightest bit familiar face of the young man I once worked with and, because Ken seems frozen to the spot, quickly check for a pulse. Finding one under the cold and clammy skin of his left wrist, I breathe a sigh of relief and start to attempt to pick him up. Dressed only in a white t-shirt and gray boxers, his skin is as cold as ice and I try not to imagine how terrifying it must have been for him to be trapped in the pitch black and refrigerated bay. “He’s alive,” I murmur gently, glancing at Ken. “I’m no doctor but I think his pulse is pretty steady too. If you’re done with just standing there though, I sure could do with some help moving him.”

“Y-yes, of course,” Ken stutters, using an unsteady hand to brush Omi’s hair back from his face as, roused no doubt by the light, his eyelids flutter slowly open.

“Ken-kun?” Omi whispers hoarsely, trying unsuccessfully to struggle into an upright position. “And… and Yohji-kun too… I… I knew you’d come.”

“Shhh… You need to save your strength,” Ken murmurs, his eyes lighting up as, finally, the relief of knowing his friend’s alive hits him. “It’s okay now, Omi. We’re here and we’re gonna get you out of here.”

“What about Aya-kun, is here too?” Omi queries, putting up no resistance as Ken and I gently swing his legs over the edge of the stainless steel tray and help him to sit up. “Is… Is he here too?”

“Aya’s here and he’s fine,” Ken replies, looking pointedly at my leather jacket as he rubs his hands over Omi’s shoulders, trying to get some warmth into him. “What’s more, once we get you out of here you’ll get to see him and everything.”

“But… But Takeda…” Too distraught and too overwhelmed to go on, Omi hugs himself and winces.

“With any luck Takeda’s already joined his lunatic half-brother in the insane asylum in the sky,” I reply, taking Ken’s less than subtle hint and shrugging out of my jacket. “Here you go,” I continue, draping it over Omi’s hunched shoulders. “Let’s just get this on you and then I think we’ll be on our way.”

“B-but… Aya…” Shaking his head and looking frustrated, Omi, with Ken’s assistance, wriggles his arms into my coat and, reaching out, grabs my hand. “Yohji-kun… You can’t allow Takeda to…”

“Chill, Munchkin,” I interrupt, the old nickname I used to use on Omi coming to me out of nowhere. “Aya will be fine. If Takeda wants to get his grubby mitts on him then he’ll have to get through Chloé first and, well, I just don’t think that’s gonna happen.”

“Krypton Brand… Krypton Brand are here too?” Omi murmurs, stumbling and almost falling to his feet as Ken tries to get him to stand.

“Interfering lot that they are, they wouldn’t let us come on our own,” Ken smiles, scooping Omi up as though he weighs less than nothing and cradling him in his arms. “Now, come on, let’s get out of here before more of them dumb ass guards decide to come out and play.”

Glancing from where Ken’s standing holding Omi to the door opposite the one we came through, I come to a sudden, snap decision, and gesture towards it. “You go back the way we came in,” I mutter, backing away and hoping that neither Ken nor Omi see fit to argue with me. “I’m going to see if I can go find the others.”

“Are you sure…” The sound of what sounds suspiciously like an explosion coming from above our heads both stopping the rest of his response dead and causing everything to shake and for small particles from the ceiling to rain down on us, Ken’s eyes widen and he clutches Omi tightly.

“What the hell do you suppose that was?” I exclaim, brushing dust from my hair and scowling up at the ceiling. “Do you think everything really is on fire up there?”

“I think I may now know what it was that Singapura had to tell us,” Ken mutters drily, meeting my eyes and shrugging as I glance across at him. “First a time frame and then an explosion… I could be wrong, but I think Crashers have just entered the equation.”

“And is this good or bad news?” I query, noting that Omi appears to have passed out and that, the stitches probably having torn from the strain it’s under, Ken’s shoulder is bleeding profusely.

“That depends on whether we all get out of here before Cathedral comes down around our heads,” Ken responds, glancing down at his shoulder and wincing. “Shit! Would you believe that I can’t even feel it?”

“I’d believe it,” I retort, shooing him towards the door as another, smaller explosions rocks Cathedral to its very foundations. “Go! I’ll find the others and we’ll all meet you outside.” 

Nodding, Ken uses his good shoulder to push open the door and starts to walk into the corridor. “You’d better.”

“I’ll be fine,” I murmur to the already empty morgue as, cheered by our success in finding Omi alive and, all things considered, relatively well, I shove through the door and start running down yet another corridor. Like the first one, it’s gray, sterile, and somehow, unless I’m totally imagining things, manages to still smell like the hospital it once belonged too. It is also, with its flickering fluorescent lighting and haze of dust caused by the explosions going on above it, completely spooky.

Vaguely recalling that one of the doors to the left should take me through an observation room that will, in turn, lead me to another flight of stairs that will take me back to ground level, I check out every room that I pass and am so focused on both doing that and hurrying that I don’t know I’ve got someone behind me until it’s too late and the blade is already embedded in my right thigh.

Startled more by the realization that I’m on my own and that, quite literally, I’m going to have to fight for my life than by the sudden pain, I spin around and attack with sheer animal instinct. Bigger than me and with the sort of face you associate with someone who tortures small furry creatures for fun, the guard, when he falls with my wire around his neck, falls like a ton of bricks. The agony in my leg hits me at the same moment that I realize that I’ve killed him and, wanting to get away, to keep moving, I lurch down the corridor, dripping a trail of blood behind me.

Wheezing, I come to the last door on the corridor’s left side and wrench it open. Staggering into the room, I note by the rows of chairs and the half wall of glass that it’s the one I’d been hoping to find and, determined to make it to the stairs, start to limp across to the other door. An observation room for either students or members of the police force to witness an autopsy in without having to experience the olfactory side of it as well, the half wall of glass looks down into the autopsy suite and, as I make my way past it, something makes me look through the glass…

And…

Coming to an abrupt stop, I stare down into the autopsy suite as everything ceases to be. The pain in my leg dissipates into nothingness, time freezes, and reality takes on the icy form of the cruelest joke imaginable.

A noise, the sort of inhuman sound that a dying animal would make, escaping my suddenly numb lips, I try to take in everything that I’m looking at but can’t.

It isn’t real. It can’t be.

It just can’t be.

A tableaux of obliterating misery laid out before me in bloody Technicolor, I stare and I stare and…

And it just makes no fucking sense!

I…

I can’t even tell if they’re alive or not. Takeda, with three of Chloé’s darts sticking out of his jugular, is definitely dead, I’m sure of it. Aya’s katana having been plunged through his gut with such force that the tip of it is sticking out of his back, the same goes for Keegan. Both are lying in pools of blood, their bodies in unnatural poses that only those who have died where they fell are capable of attaining, on the floor, their eyes wide open and unseeing. Held limply in Keegan’s outstretched hand is the Smith & Wesson with the mother-of-pearl handle he was flashing around and making a song and dance about before we left the embassy. Faith told him that it wouldn’t be needed, that he didn’t want him to take it, but clearly he ignored him.

They mean nothing to me and, looking at them, I feel neither remorse nor a sense of loss. So they’re dead. So what? Takeda was insane and our target and Keegan, well, Keegan was a prick. I’m not saying he necessarily deserved to die but at the same time I can’t say that his death is ever likely to make that much of an impact on me.

The others though…

Oh God… Oh dear God…

Sitting slumped against a wall and looking like a marionette that has had its strings cut, is Chloé. His eyes are closed, the wall above his head is smeared with blood, there’s blood dripping down his torso, and…

And I think he’s dead. I also think, just by going on the blood splatter on the wall, that he was shot. Shot… by Keegan?

But…

Why? Is this what Free saw in the cards?

Oh… God… This is too much.

Lying a short distance away from Chloé’s legs, curled on his side and unmoving, is Aya, his left hand clutching at the side of his neck as though he’d been trying to pull something out it when he went down. His back to me, I can’t see the extent of his injuries. 

Nor can I even tell if he’s alive.

Then, leaning on the door and looking as still as everyone else in the room, there’s Faith, his ghostly white face that of a man who’s lost everything. He’s alive and appears to be uninjured, but while he’s physically in the room I don’t even want to hazard a guess as to where his mind is.

And…

Fuck!

Fuck, fuck, *fuck*!

How? Why? What happened? Was it Schuldig? Did Keegan shoot Chloé before being killed by Aya?

My heart feeling as though it’s beating in slow motion, I try to force a semblance of life back into my veins and, with an anguished howl, throw myself at the window. Made from reinforced glass, my weight crashing against it doesn’t cause it to so much as crack. Not thinking of anything other than my need to get to Aya, I don’t stop to think about possibly trying to find another way into the room and try again, this time hitting it with my injured leg and knocking the wind out of myself in the process. Faith, despite the noise I’m making, doesn’t move, doesn’t glance towards the glass, hell, doesn’t even *blink*, which only reinforces my theory that something’s snapped in his mind.

“Balinese!” a male voice suddenly barks from the doorway as, pushing aside the pain, I straighten myself up to have another go. “You need to get out of here *now*!”

“Whoever you are, if you’re not going to help me you can just fuck off!” I retort, glaring at the newcomer. Dressed in a white coat (the man from the scaffolding?) and with dark blond hair and the saddest looking blue eyes I’ve ever seen, I can only assume, going on his use of my old codename, that I once knew the man and that, perhaps, he’s a member of the mysterious Crashers. This said, unless he’s got some sort of miracle hidden up his sleeve, I couldn’t really give a flying fuck who he is.

Glancing at my leg, the man frowns and strides through the door, his hand reaching for me as though he’s harboring delusions of grabbing me to pull me out of the room. “If you need some help walking I’ll…”

“It’s not fucking walking that I need help with!” I interrupt, my agitation, loss of blood and shock boiling over and leaving me feel weak and light headed. “It… It’s Aya… and Chloé… I have to get to them. I… I can’t just leave them there…”

…Even if they’re dead and there’s nothing else I can do for them, I can’t simply leave them behind. I can’t and I won’t. They wouldn’t leave me, I know they wouldn’t, and I’m not going to leave them.

“What are you…” Trailing off, the man glances through the window and, clearly shocked by what he’s seeing, physically recoils. Exhaling sharply, he glances across at me, his eyes full of anguish. “What happened?”

“I wish I fucking knew,” I snap, pushing my hair back away from my face and, petulantly, giving the chair closest to me a vicious kick. “Now, I don’t know who you are, but we’ve got to do something and we’ve got to do it *fast*!”

“Faster than you know,” the man murmurs, his frown deepening as he looks at his watch. “You need to get out of here though. With your leg the way it is you need to look after yourself first. I’ll take care of the others.”

“Like hell you…”

The rest of my declaration of determination being drowned out by yet another newcomer coming crashing through the door, I give the chair another kick and glare at the oddly dressed young man who’s just joined us. In his very early twenties and wearing a blue beret style hat, he looks as agitated as the first man does cool, calm and collected. Again, I don’t recognize him but suspect that I should.

“Knight! What are you doing in here when…” Noticing my eyes burning a hole in him, he blinks wide eyes at me and offers me a hesitant smile. “Oh. Balinese. Sorry. I didn’t know you were there.”

“Not to worry,” I mutter, shrugging as I start to limp towards the second door, the one that I’d originally been aiming for when I first entered the room. “I was just going anyway.”

“Pawn, I want you to see that Balinese makes it safely outside,” Knight orders, the sight of my back moving slowly and ungainfully away from him apparently being all the kick in the ass he required to shake off his shock and take charge. “I need to take care of Abyssinian.”

“I’m perfectly capable of taking care of… of *Abyssinian* myself,” I grind out, fumbling over opening the door and feeling as though the room is beginning to spin around me. “He…”

“Come on, Balinese, I need to get you out of here,” Pawn states gently, coming up behind me and slinging my arm around his shoulders. “You’re in no state to worry about Abyssinian.”

“But…” My knees buckling, it’s only Pawn’s arm quickly snaking around my waist that keeps me upright and, my body paying the price for the amount of blood gushing out of my wounded leg, I slump against him. “Aya… I have to go to Aya… and Chloé. I… I can’t leave them. Please… Let me… Let me help.”

“It’s okay, Balinese,” Pawn murmurs, pushing through the door and half dragging, half carrying me out of the room. “Knight will take care of the others. Now, shhh… Don’t talk. You need to try to conserve your strength.”

“Aya…” Whimpering nonsensically, I allow Pawn to guide me along the corridor as silent tears slip down my cheeks. My mind on other, far darker things than my own predicament and safety, I pay no attention to where we’re going and am subsequently somewhat shocked, or perhaps that should be nonplussed, when Pawn opens a door that leads out into the car park.

We made it out? Just like that?

The fresh air reviving me slightly, I glance over my shoulder as Pawn drags me across the gravel and very nearly don’t believe what it is I’m seeing. Burning up in a way that only old, predominantly wooden structures are capable of, Cathedral is like something straight of a horror movie. Brilliant orange and red flames flare out of shattered windows and the sound of the remaining windows imploding is deafening. The heat scorching and the air thick with ash and smoke, it takes me a moment to get my bearings and when I do I see that the inferno engulfing Cathedral is as much of a show as the party itself was. News crews jostle for space by the gates with fire engines and other emergency services vehicles while people rush, many of them screaming, around in all directions. 

Squinting at the camera crews, I notice Bengal, now dressed in a leather jacket with the chibi dragon advertising the Dragon’s Tears painted on the back, giving an interview to a female reporter. Knowing -- publicity -- a captive audience when he sees one, Bengal appears to be playing the role of traumatized survivor for all it’s worth, waving his arms around and miming how he had to cover his nose and mouth so as to avoid inhaling too much smoke during his, no doubt, daring and brave escape from peril. Standing a small distance back and just out of camera range, is Singapura, a mobile phone glued to her ear that she’s chatting animatedly in to. Both, thankfully, appear to be uninjured.

“Yohji!” The sound of Ken’s voice yelling my name tearing my attention away from Bengal and Sing, I look around for him and find him crouched by a car, Omi, his back resting against a tire, unconscious next to him. “Oh shit! Look at your leg,” he adds, nodding a silent greeting at Pawn as the young man helps me down to the ground. “What the fuck happened, huh? And, shit! Where’s Aya? Yohji! Why… Oh fuck… Why are you crying? Yohji! Talk to me!”

Shaking my head, I stare blankly at Ken as the ability to speak deserts me. My vision blurring through the sheen of tears, I see more legs walking over to mill around me and know, just by the pants they’re wearing as I’m too distraught to look up at their faces, that Free and Jin have made it out as well. No Finlay though, meaning…

Meaning another one down?

“Pawn!” Ken barks, jumping to his feet and grabbing the other man by the front of his coat. “What’s going on here? Where are the others?”

“Knight’s bringing them out,” Pawn replies, pulling away from Ken and staring towards Cathedral, his expression pensive. “They… They’ll be fine. You’ll see.”

“I’m going back in,” Ken snarls, starting to stalk towards the burning church. “Where are they?”

“No… You can’t,” Pawn states agitatedly, running after Ken. “It’s… It’s too dangerous. You have to leave it to Knight now.”

“What do you fucking mean it’s too late?” Ken snaps, spinning around and once again snatching up the front of Pawn’s coat.

And then…

And then it happens.

The end. The final destruction of all hope.

The explosion that brings Cathedral down as though it was made out of nothing stronger than matchsticks answers Ken’s question before Pawn has even had time to open his mouth. One second it’s standing, the next it’s just… not. Watching the spires come tumbling down and being engulfed by the ferocious flames is like watching the world come to an end.

Well, my world anyway. The one I’d just begun to become used to and rely on.

“Aya! Oh God… Aya! Ken! Free! *Someone* do something! Aya and Chloé… they… they’re still in there…”

… And Faith, and Finlay, and Knight…

This can’t be happening.

Not…

It can’t end like this! It just can’t!

Aya, what…

… Whatever happened to not leaving me behind this time?

=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=


	9. Chapter 9

~ Aya ~

With consciousness comes not comprehension but fear. Instinctual, all consuming, spine tingling fear.

I hurt… all over. My head in particular feels as though it’s made of lead and I doubt, even if I wanted to, that I could successfully lift it off the pillow.

I’m lying… huddled… in a bed with what feels like silk pajamas on and no recollection of how I got here. If I’m safe, I… I don’t feel it.

The air, what I can smell of it from under the protective covering of the blanket I’ve got half pulled over my head, smells of sickness, of vomit, and my mouth tastes… sour… as though I’m the cause of the room’s rank odor.

I don’t know where I am and, too wary of how they might react, I don’t want to open my eyes to check out who the men are that I can sense hovering over me.

Well…

I *assume* they’re men. Just as I *assume* there’s more than one other person in the room with me.

I don’t know. Perhaps I’m alone and simply imagining things. Perhaps I’m in a hospital. Perhaps…

Perhaps I’m being held captive. Perhaps either Takeda or Schwarz won. 

I…

I just don’t know. I don’t know anything other than I ache and that I’m afraid. Afraid of where I might be and afraid of what might have happened to the others. The unknown reality I’m ensnared in dominating my vague and panicky thoughts, the events that led me here are little more than an ill formed mass hiding in the deepest recesses of my mind. I remember…

Cathedral. I remember following Faith and Chloé across Cathedral’s dance floor and…

And that’s it.

“Look. I think he’s awake. Does he look awake to you?”

The voice, which is both male and speaking Japanese with the ease and naturalness of a native speaker, while vaguely familiar, means nothing to me. It could belong to a friend or, just as easily, it could belong to a foe.

“He could very well be awake,” another male voice, this one, I think, older sounding than the first, replies. “Aya? Can you hear me, Aya?”

Ignoring the voice, I curl into a tighter ball and pull the blanket fully over my head.

… Go away. Please. Leave me be.

“See? I told you he was awake,” the first voice states as, to my complete horror, I can sense someone crouching down beside the bed. “Aya… C’mon. It’s…”

“No! No, no, no!”

The hand reaching under the comforter and lightly stroking my arm kick starting me into life, I pull away from it and half scrabble, half lurch across to the other side of the bed. Fear, both of being touched and of having to come face-to-face with my captors, coursing through me, I lash out at the hands that continue to reach for me and, still without opening my eyes, start to struggle for all I’m worth.

“No! Leave me alone! Don’t touch me!”

Not again!

I won’t live through this again.

“Aya…”

“*No*! Don’t… Don’t touch me…”

Don’t…

Oh God…

Just don’t touch me.

“Doctor… Please. Do something for him before he hurts himself.”

Doctor?

“Clearly he is not yet ready to rejoin us,” the older man, the *doctor*, murmurs with a sigh. “I had hoped that the after effects would have worn off by now but, as you can see as well as I can, clearly this is not the case.”

After effects? *What* after effects?

How long have I been out of it? Who…

Who are these people and what do they want from me?

Yohji? Chloé? Where are you?

“Aya… Come on, you need to listen to me…”

“No!” Flailing my arms around, my hand connects with a rough, unshaven cheek and, shocked by this, I jerk further away and, having no one behind me to stop me, fall off the edge of the bed. Landing heavily on the floor knocking both the wind and the fight out of me, I curl into a defeated ball and, accepting that I can’t win, that I’m trapped, allow the icy tip of the hypodermic to slide into my arm without protest.

The drugs taking near on immediate effect, consciousness is already slipping away as strong arms pick me up and return me to bed. I want to fight him off, to cringe away from his touch, but I’m too weak. He could do anything he wanted to me and I wouldn’t be able to stop him.

I’m also too weak, too far gone, to push him away as he climbs onto the mattress and, after pulling the comforter back up, cradles my body next to his. My skin crawls and I whimper an incomprehensible complaint, but there’s nothing I can do to stop him from embracing me as though he owns me.

My last thought, as the man starts to gently stroke my hair and tears begin to stream down my cheeks, is that I shouldn’t be here and that whatever went down at Cathedral went down *wrong*.

Terribly, terribly wrong.

Yohji?

Chloé?

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Waking to both the sounds of snoring and rain falling heavily on the roof, I squirm away from the body I’m lying cradled against and slowly, reluctantly, open my eyes. The first thing I see, as I blink in the dull light filtering into the room, is that it’s Yohji lying next to me and, my relief at this knowing no bounds, I breathe a shaky sounding sigh of relief. Unshaven and with a smattering of small abrasions marking his face, he looks, even in his sleep, exhausted, as though the past few days have seen him dragged through hell and back. He could be wearing an eye patch and have his skull all bandaged up though and, to me, he’d still be a vision.

Okay. 

Yohji.

Right. I’m lying… *somewhere*… in a bed with Yohji. Both of us are dressed, Yohji in a t-shirt and pajama pants while I’m wearing my usual pajamas, and neither of us are restrained in any way.

These things are all good. Sure, I feel like death warmed up and I swear some sort of fungus colony is growing on my tongue, but, all in all, things could be far worse.

Pushing myself into a sitting position, I glance warily around the room and, feeling as though I should recognize it, try and make sense of just what the hell is going on. While messy and unlikely to win any interior design awards, the room, for all intents and purposes, appears to be a bedroom. Other than the bed, the only other furniture in the room is a chest-of-drawers, a cupboard, and an old fashioned looking chair upholstered in threadbare red velvet. The walls are painted a soft gray color and it’s the color, more than anything else, that makes me feel as though I’ve been in the room before. Incense, the scent of which I can’t quite make out, burns from a simple pottery holder on the floor next to the chair. An open door to my right leads into what looks to be an en suite while the one to my left I can only assume leads out onto a corridor and the rest of the house. Reassuringly, it’s ajar and I view this, the fact that we’re not locked in, as yet another thing to feel positive about.

On the floor and chest-of-drawers, lying open and with their contents strewn everywhere as though they’d been gone through by an overzealous customs official, are suitcases that I recognize as both Yohji’s and mine. Lying draped across the chair is the black leather coat I wore to…

… Cathedral.

And, yeah… Okay.

Accepting that nothing’s going to make any sense to me without help, I prod Yohji’s shoulder and wait impatiently for him to wake up. When this has no effect I try again, this time with a little more force and with the added emphasis of saying his name.

“Yohji!”

My voice sounding hoarse from disuse, I cough to clear my throat and, closing my hand around Yohji’s arm, vow to keep pummeling him until he wakes up. “Yohji! Wake up! I… I need you… to wake up!”

Something in either my voice or my ministrations finally having the desired effect, Yohji’s eyelids flicker open and, after giving a muffled, instinctive, grunt of complaint, he slowly sits up. “Hey there, gorgeous,” he murmurs thickly, yawning as he reaches across and gently strokes my cheek. “Decided to finally rejoin the rest of us suckers in the land of the living, huh?”

“Yohji…” Shifting my face away from his hand, I try to ignore the worried, wary look he’s giving me and gesture feebly around the room. “Where are we? I… I need to know where we are.”

“Ah… Ken said something about you probably not recognizing it,” Yohji replies cryptically, running his fingers through his hair before sitting up a little straighter and again cupping my cheek in his palm. “It’s okay, my love, there’s no need for you to look so stressed. We’re at Souzou. In fact, according to Ken, this is your old room and everything.”

“Souzou?” I echo cautiously, frowning. We’re at… *Souzou*? Christ. Will wonders truly never cease? “But… That door over there, doesn’t it lead into a bathroom? My… The room I used to have didn’t have an en suite.”

“Mmm… But nor did the place double as a convalescent hospital back then either,” Yohji responds, his fingers lightly stroking my cheek as he looks at me through clearly concerned green eyes. “Think about it, Aya. The Powers That Be couldn’t have some crippled agent having to drag his wounded ass all the way down the corridor just to take a piss now, could they? Hence, if you think about it, the need to renovate and add en suites.”

“I… I suppose,” I mutter, shaking my head and, reaching up, closing my hand tightly around Yohji’s wrist. “Yohji… We’re safe, yes? Everything’s… okay?”

“Looks like the doctor was right and everything I was telling you *was* going in one ear and straight out the other,” Yohji replies, smiling as he leans forward to plant a soft kiss on the tip of my nose. “Without going into detail again though, yes, things are… okay. They’re not perfect, not by any stretch of the imagination, but we’re all safe and… and it’s over. Did you hear that, Aya? It’s over. It’s all over.”

“Good. I’m… I’m glad,” I mumble, half of what Yohji’s saying to me going straight over my head and through to the keeper. We’re at Souzou? How the fuck did we end up here? And what doctor? Shaking my head again, I stifle a yawn and, deciding that everything else can wait, throw the comforter off. “I want a shower,” I state, swinging my legs over the edge of the mattress and making to stand up. “I think… no… make that I *know*… I smell and I want a shower.”

“Whoa! Just wait a minute there, Aya,” Yohji exclaims, climbing out of bed and hobbling over to stand in front of me. “I know you want a shower but I think it would probably be better if I got the doctor to look over you first,” he continues, placing his hand lightly on my shoulder to keep me from standing. “You know, just to give you the all clear.”

“All clear?” I repeat, scowling at Yohji as I push his hand away and slowly stand up. “And what doctor? I’m fine. I don’t need any doctor.”

“I’m taking it then that you can’t remember anything of the past three days,” Yohji sighs, catching me as, the shock of being upright messing with everything from my head down, I almost collapse. “Aya… Okay. There’s no easy way to say this so I’ll just come out and hit you with it. Whether you can remember it or not, you’ve just spent the last sixty hours alternating your time between sleeping, freaking out, and puking your guts up. In other words, you’re not well and I’m not sure you should be out of bed.”

Digging my fingers into his shoulders, I cling to Yohji and stare at him blankly as my mind struggles to make sense of what he’s trying to explain to me. “Three…” Shit. “Three days have passed since we went to Cathedral?” I query dully, resisting Yohji’s hesitant attempts to get me back into bed by digging my heels into the carpet and remaining, albeit unsteadily, standing. “I… Hell. You’re right. I don’t remember anything.”

“Given the state you were in, it’s probably for the best too,” Yohji responds quietly, brushing my hair back from my forehead and smiling at me gently. “Whatever the drug was that Takeda hit you with, it reacted badly with the cold and flu tablets you’d been taking and, well, let’s just say it had a bad effect on you. If you weren’t unconscious you were throwing up, and when you weren’t doing either of those two things you were behaving as though you were convinced we were out to get you. I… Oh my God, Aya. You have no idea how worried I’ve been and how relieved I am that the worst of it appears to be over and that you’re back with me. You… Shit. You scared me.”

“Sorry,” I whisper, hanging my head and, feeling embarrassed by all the worry I unwittingly caused, staring down at the floor. Stupid drugs. I knew there was a reason I usually do whatever I can to avoid taking so much as over the counter painkillers. “I didn’t mean to worry you. It’s just that I… I didn’t know where I was. Everything seemed so foreign and scary to me that I couldn’t even recognize your voice. Yohji… I’m really sorry.”

“Forget it,” Yohji replies, lifting my chin with his finger and shaking his head as I reluctantly lift my head to look at him. “Seriously. There’s nothing to apologize for and, besides, so long as it meant you turned out okay, I’d do it all over again. And I’m even talking about cleaning all those buckets you went through and…”

“I get the picture,” I interrupt, suppressing a shudder at not only the thought of having been so sick but also at the thought of Yohji having to look after me, “and, again, I thank you. Now, please, I want a shower. If the doctor needs to see me then he can do so after I’ve showered and am no longer smelling quite so… rank.”

“What about…” Trailing off, Yohji stares into my eyes for a couple of seconds before shrugging his acceptance and nodding. “You’re right, everything else can wait,” he murmurs, slinging his arm around my shoulders and slowly guiding me towards the door to the bathroom. “Come on then, let’s get you cleaned up. Knowing you, you’ll probably feel better after a shower anyway.”

“We can only hope,” I mutter, slumping against Yohji and knowing that if he wasn’t there to hold me the only way I’d be making it to the bathroom would be on my hands and knees. “Thank you though. I’m… grateful for your help.”

“And I’m just grateful that you’re okay,” Yohji responds quietly, switching the bathroom light on with his free hand and helping me through the door. “Well, here we are,” he adds, gesturing airily around the room, “the hospital bathroom you have without actually having to be in hospital.”

Looking around me at the uninspired beige décor of the bathroom and its perfunctory fittings and downright worrying collection of chrome handrails, I pull a face and sigh. “It’s lovely,” I mumble, limping away from Yohji only to lean against the glass wall of the shower. “I particularly like the handrails in the shower… and, oh, look, they’re around the toilet as well… because, well, there’s nothing quite like handrails to tell you that you’re old and infirm.”

“As I’ve already reminded you,” Yohji replies, pulling his t-shirt over his head and letting it drop to the floor, “Souzou is now a place for old and infirm agents to go to recover in. Hence both why we just happen to be here and the handrails. Given that I have my doubts about you remaining upright under your own steam, perhaps you’d better not diss them too much in case you find yourself having to rely on them.”

“That’s what I’ve got you for,” I retort, wincing first at the myriad of bruises covering Yohji’s torso and then, as he slips off his pajama pants, his heavily bandaged right thigh. “Oh God, Yohji… Your leg. What happened to your leg?”

“A thankfully not overly well aimed stiletto is what happened to my leg,” Yohji mutters, giving me a wry look as he walks over to the vanity unit and starts to wrap his thigh in the cling film that has clearly been placed there for exactly this purpose. “There’s nothing to worry about though, trust me. It missed an artery by, hell, at least half a millimeter, and the doc reckons it’s going to be just fine.”

“Shit. If it hadn’t missed…” Trailing off, I push that particular depressing thought -- It missed. He’s *here* and he’s okay. And that’s all that matters. -- out my mind and watch Yohji finish off sealing his bandage. Once he’s done, he turns the water on in the shower before helping me undress. The stubborn part of me tells me that I should bat his hands away, that I’m perfectly capable of taking my pajamas off myself, but, feeling too vague to actually do anything about these thoughts, let him strip me without resistance.

My own body playing house to even more bruises than Yohji’s, I look down at my motley looking flesh as he kicks my pajamas away and screw my face up. “Well, that explains the pain then,” I comment flatly, hanging on to glass wall as I slowly step into the shower and under the welcome warmth of the cascading water. “All I can say is that I hope the other guy came off a lot worse.”

“Don’t you remember any of it?” Yohji queries, joining me in the shower and pulling the door shut behind him. “Cathedral… What happened,” he continues, his voice catching in his throat as he reaches for the soap and begins to gently wash me. “Aya? Surely you remember at least some of it.”

Sighing, I close my eyes and give a weary shake of my head. “Right now it’s just a blank,” I murmur. “I know we went to Cathedral and I know *why* we went, but… but everything’s vague from being on the dance floor onwards. It… I’m sure it’ll come to me though. My head probably just needs a little time to come to grips with things.”

“I’m sure it’ll come to you too,” Yohji replies with a hint of what sounds suspiciously like pain in his voice. “You… You don’t want to rush it though. Just let it come when it wants too.”

“Mmm…” Opening my eyes, I watch Yohji watch me with a sort of detached interest. Although I feel both relieved and safe, I still feel as though I’m missing something. Something important, something that means a lot to me but that I can’t quite put my finger on. I’m alive… It’s over… Yohji’s okay…

And…?

And I’m missing something. I’m definitely missing something.

“Hey, Aya,” Yohji murmurs, placing his hand on my shoulder as he uses the other to quickly wash himself. “You okay? If you’re feeling faint just tell me and I’ll get you straight back to bed.”

“I’m fine,” I mutter, the lie slipping out of my mouth before I can stop it. “Just thinking about what I can’t remember, that’s all.”

“It’ll come to you in time,” Yohji states softly, kissing my cheek as he returns the soap to the soap dish and turns off the water. “Now though, I think the time has come to get you back to bed and for Dr Miyazaki to come check you out.”

“Dr Miyazaki?” I repeat, looking at Yohji expectantly as I let him help me out of the shower cubicle. “Dr Miyazaki as in the doctor who…”

“The one and only,” Yohji smiles, cutting me off as he wraps a thick white towel around my shoulders. “Although I can’t remember him, he can certainly remember us and I think, going on the lecture he gave both me and Ken on looking after ourselves better, he may even be pleased to see us. Apparently he’s been Souzou’s resident doctor ever since Kritiker turned it into a convalescent home.”

“Some people just get all the luck,” I mutter, making a token attempt to begin drying myself as Yohji, like the good mother hen that he is, wraps a towel around his waist before reaching for me. “Dr Miyazaki, he’s a good doctor though, and a good man. Despite the bullshit story you told him about us being brothers and that I was a… masochist… he never once made me feel any worse about myself and, although I don’t think I ever told him, I respect him for that.”

“Well, now’s your chance to tell him,” Yohji replies, grinning as he takes over the task of drying me off. Once he’s done, he ties the towel around my waist and, determined to clean everything while I’m in the bathroom, I make my way over to the basin to shave and brush my teeth. 

When my teeth -- and tongue -- are clean and I’ve finished shaving, I feel considerably more alive and with it than I have in days and wave the shaver pointedly at Yohji. “Your turn.”

“Ah, but what if I’d decided that I was going to grow a beard?” Yohji mutters, joining me at the basin and stroking his whiskery chin as he peers in the mirror. “You know, go for the more rugged look…”

“Shave,” I reply matter-of-factly as I place the shaver into Yohji’s hand. “Shave, or resign yourself to your mouth never coming anywhere near me ever again.”

“Your willingness to try new things is what I love about you, Aya,” Yohji laughs, taking the shaver and turning it on. “But, hey, look… You win. I’m shaving. See? Happy now?”

“Over the moon,” I murmur, turning around and, wanting to see if I *can*, making my way out of the bathroom. “I’m just going to get dressed.”

“Yell if you can’t find what you’re looking for,” Yohji replies. “Everything was packed in a hurry but, believe me, if it was in the room at the embassy then it’s here. Somewhere.”

“It had better be,” I mutter, stepping into the bedroom and, suddenly feeling determined to show that I can do it, that I can get dressed and stay up, walking over to the chest-of-drawers where I promptly start hunting through the suitcase for something to put on. Jeans, a black shirt that is both sadly crumpled and in desperate need of an iron, and a pair of matching socks I find easily and, pulling them out, throw them on the bed. Underwear proves to be more elusive however and in the end, after I’ve burrowed through the entire case to no avail, I give up and claim a pair of Yohji’s boxers as my own. While sharing underwear has never been high on my preferred list of things to do, it’s either admit defeat and borrow his or crouch down and dig through the other two suitcases on the floor. And, well, to put it plainly, I simply can’t be bothered. If Yohji begrudges me his boxers then, I’m sorry, that’s just too bad.

Clothing obtained, I pull the boxers on under the towel before draping the towel over the arm of the chair and putting on the jeans. As I all but expected they hang loosely on me and, not liking how scrawny I look, I quickly pull the shirt on and am just finishing doing up the buttons as Yohji walks into the room. Looking at me, he shakes his head but refrains from stating -- that I’m supposed to be playing the role of the good patient and climbing into my pajamas before dutifully returning to bed -- the obvious. His expression, the one that’s as disapproving as it is resigned, tells me what he’s thinking anyway and, just as I would have if he’d wasted his breath saying anything, I ignore it and sink down on the edge of the bed in order to pull my socks on.

“Hey, looks like the maid’s been through,” Yohji comments mildly, gesturing at the bed as, taking up where I left off, he starts pushing clothes around in the suitcase on top of the chest-of-drawers.

Looking down at the bed, I note with surprise that it’s been freshly made and, somewhat shocked by this, hurriedly glance around the room to see if anything else has happened to change since we entered the bathroom. “We have a maid?” I query dully as I see that the window has been opened and that a fresh stick of incense has been lit in the burner. “If so, I think I’d prefer it if they waited to be asked to do something before just walking in and just doing it.”

“No, we don’t have a maid,” Yohji replies, frowning at the suitcase. “I could have sworn… Never mind. I’m sure to find another pair somewhere.”

“If we don’t have a maid then who made the bed?” I mutter, eschewing putting Yohji’s mind to rest about the location of his errant boxers and finishing pulling my socks on. “I know I’m not exactly with it at the moment but if you tell me some sort of housework fairy came in and did it then I’m going to hit you.”

“Housework fairy?” Yohji smirks, digging through the suitcase closest to him on the floor before finally locating a pair of boxers and snagging them up with his toes. If I felt up to laughing I’d tell him it was like watching a trained monkey at work. “Not knowing his… ah… sexual predilections… I don’t quite know how Yuushi would take being called a fairy. Don’t worry though, he’s been sitting with you while I’ve been with…”

“Yuushi?” I interrupt, staring at Yohji in mute, opened mouth amazement. “Knight? Knight’s… here?”

“Mmm… He’s here and, despite living in constant fear of having you throw up on him, he’s been spending a fair bit of time in here watching over you,” Yohji replies, pulling his boxers on before coming over to sit next to me. “I… I suppose I thought you knew that already. As for why he made the bed? Well, he probably came to check how things were and just decided it was a good idea or something.”

“Oh…” Of course he did. Yuushi’s playing nursemaid and housekeeper and, having been living in my own little hellish fantasy world, I didn’t even know. Wonderful. I can’t wait to find out everything else that’s been going on while I’ve been out of it as well. Going on the surprises I’ve had so far, it’s no doubt going to be spectacular.

“Aya…” Draping his arm around my shoulder, Yohji hugs me to him and kisses the top of my head. “You know, I was going to give you the benefit of the doubt and humor this idiotic notion of yours that you’re ready to be up and about, but now… Come on, my love, give it up and get back into bed.”

Scowling at Yohji, I squirm away from him and, regardless of how stubborn and no doubt petulant it’s making me look, fold my arms across my chest. “No. I’m not going back to bed,” I mutter sullenly. “If Yuushi’s here I should…” A horrid thought coming to me, I trail off and glance sideways at Yohji. “Um… Please tell me I didn’t throw up on him…”

“No, you didn’t throw up on him,” Yohji responds with a smile as he stands up and goes back to ferreting around for clothes. “For reasons best known to yourself you saved that particular honor for me and me alone. I’m telling you now though that if you hadn’t looked so pathetic and whacked there’s a good chance I’d have taken in personally.”

“Sorry,” I murmur, staring down at the comforter and hugging myself a little tighter. “I… It wasn’t personal and I… I apologize.”

“Oddly enough I’d already accepted that you weren’t throwing your guts up every four hours simply because you had nothing better to do and simply felt like it,” Yohji replies drily, pulling on a pair of jeans and giving me an amused look as he zips them up. “Come on though, I mean it about you needing to get back into bed. You need to rest and I need to get both Dr Miyazaki and something for you to eat.”

Sighing, I rub my hands over my face and, pulling my legs up on to the mattress, settle myself in a cross-legged position. “Yohji… I…” I don’t want to be saying this but, not knowing what else to do, who else to turn to, I have to… “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I feel as though… I don’t know. I feel as though I’m missing something.”

“Missing something? Like what?” Yohji queries, tugging a long sleeved t-shirt over his head before crouching down in front of me and placing his hands on my knees. “If it’s the ins and outs of what’s been happening the past few days then I’m happy to go through it all with you again.”

“It’s not just that,” I murmur, settling my hands over Yohji’s and staring down at him. “I feel… And I’m sure you’re going to laugh at this… I feel as though I’m missing something that’s a part of me. I feel… incomplete…”

“Incomplete?” Yohji echoes, giving me a funny look before pulling his hands out from under mine and jumping to his feet. “I know! Your bracelet. You’re probably missing your bracelet,” he continues, hurrying over to the bedside table and picking my charm bracelet up from next to the lamp. “Here. Dr Miyazaki took it off when you nearly took his eye out with it while you were waving your arms around. Sorry. I was going to put it back on once you’d calmed down but it just must have slipped my mind.”

Taking the bracelet from Yohji, I lay it flat in the palm of my hand and hesitantly trace my finger around the charms. Coming to the rose, a piercing bolt of clarity descends on me with such crushing force that not only do I gasp but my body feels as though a bucket of icy water has been tipped over it.

“Chloé!” 

Dropping the bracelet between my crossed legs, I stare wide-eyed at Yohji and, with arms that don’t feel as though they’re attached to my body, gesture at him wildly. “Kee… Keegan! He… Oh God, oh God! He killed Chloé! I saw it and… Oh my God! I can’t believe I forgot about it until…”

“Shhh… Aya!” Kneeling on the bed in front of me, Yohji places his hands firmly on my shoulders and gives me a gentle shake. “Aya! Listen to me,” he states commandingly, “Chloé’s not dead. Yes, that little bastard shot him, but he’s not dead. Come on, you need to calm down and listen to what I’m telling you. He’s alive and he’s going to be okay.”

“But… But I saw him go down,” I whimper, crawling into a kneeling position and collapsing gratefully into Yohji’s waiting arms. No, no, no! Not Chloé. He can’t… He can’t be dead. “Keegan shot him three times and… and he went down! He… He has to be dead!”

Tears welling in my eyes, I clutch my fingers into Yohji’s top and bury my head in the crook of his neck, my entire body shaking with emotion. Not Chloé… He can’t be dead. I know what I saw, but he… No, no, no! He just can’t be.

“You really haven’t heard a single thing you’ve been told, have you,” Yohji murmurs soothingly, his hand gently stroking my hair in an attempt to calm me down. “Now, shhh… It’s okay. Chloé’s here at Souzou and, in time, he’s going to be okay. Like you he’s too damn stubborn for his own good and, despite Keegan’s best efforts, won’t just give up and stay down.”

“He… He’s alive?” I mumble cautiously, barely daring to hope. “But… I saw him get shot and… and the blood! There was so much blood.”

“He lost a dangerously large amount of blood but, thanks to Finlay arriving in the nick of time to carry him out, he’s going to make a complete recovery,” Yohji replies, still stroking my hair as his other arm snakes around my waist to hold me. “The blood transfusions have worked their magic, Dr Miyazaki has patched him up and, trust me, Aya, I’m not just saying this to make you feel better, he’s going to be fine. In fact, despite the fact he’s still heavily sedated and is about as much fun to be around at the moment as you are, I can take you to see him if you like as he’s just down the corridor and around a couple of corners.”

“He’s really going to be okay?” I whisper, lifting my head to look at Yohji. “You’re not just saying it to calm me down?”

“And risk you holding it against me for the rest of my life?” Yohji smiles, releasing me from his embrace and shuffling backwards off the bed. “Come on,” he adds, extending his hand towards me and waiting for me to take it. “If you won’t believe me let me prove it to you by taking you to him.”

Nodding slowly, I take Yohji’s hand and let him help me off the bed. “I’m sorry for overreacting,” I murmur, snatching up a tissue from the chest-of-drawers and wiping my eyes with it before shoving it in my pocket and following Yohji out of the room. “It’s just that… Well, if you’d been there you’d know why I was so convinced that he had to be dead.”

“Not to mention how much the finicky blond means to you,” Yohji replies softly, getting in step with me and placing his arm around my waist. “It’s okay, you know,” he continues, giving my cheek a kiss as he guides me along the corridor, “I’d have been as devastated as you if he’d inconsiderately gone and died on us.”

“Mmm…” I respond noncommittally, glancing around a corridor that is essentially as unfamiliar looking to me as the bedroom. While I believe Yohji that we’re at Souzou, it’s clearly not the Souzou I remember and I feel a twinge of annoyance towards Kritiker for so thoroughly changing what had once been our home. Gone is the large window that used to look out towards the so-called Enchanted Forest at the end of the corridor and its place, like a T-junction, is another corridor that leads both left and right and which clearly heads into extensions that have doubled, if not tripled the size of the original house. 

Glancing over my shoulder as Yohji takes me down the corridor to the left, I see that the one to the right is decorated in a bland, homey fashion while the one I’m walking down looks suspiciously like a corridor you’d find in a hospital. Bare white walls on both sides of me, gray linoleum under my feet, an antiseptic, artificially clean smell in the air, doors with small glass windows in them…

Abruptly coming to a stop, I pull away from Yohji and, suddenly feeling all dithery and light headed, lean heavily against the wall. “It’s like a hospital,” I comment, shaking my head. “One second we’re in a house and the next we’re in a hospital. It…”

… It’s freaking me out, that’s what it’s doing. 

“Pretty neat, huh?” Yohji replies, walking back over to stand next to me. “Kritiker left no stone unturned when they turned this place into a convalescent home. There’s three private wings, a communal area, and a fully equipped mini-hospital. Just about you name it and it can be treated here.”

“And…” Fuck. I’m going to have a panic attack. I can just feel it. “Chloé… He’s in one of these… hospital… rooms?”

“Yep, he’s in the room just to our left,” Yohji responds, gesturing across at the closed door. “I won’t lie or sugarcoat things for you, Aya, while he’s pretty much got the all clear now it *was* touch and go for a while and he still needs to be monitored for at least the next couple of days, which, you know, is why he’s here.”

And… 

And being monitored means tubes and expensive, confusing pieces of electrical equipment. Not to mention cold skin and, apart from the hum of the equipment, silence… Complete, unrelenting silence that follows you out of the hospital and makes you want to scream and kick at inanimate objects until you can scream and kick no more.

And I can’t do it.

I can’t see Chloé like this.

“This is a bad idea,” I mutter, pushing away from the wall and walking back down the corridor. “Chloé’s weak and… and I shouldn’t see him in case I’ve still got my cold and I infect him. I’ll just wait until he’s better and out of hospital.”

“Aya!” Yohji exclaims, jogging after me and grabbing me by the arm. “What are you talking about? Surely now that you’ve made it this far you could just poke your head around…”

“No!” Jerking my arm away from Yohji, I hurry as fast as my traitorous body will allow me back towards my room. “I… I’ll just wait…”

“Aya!”

Not looking where I’m going, I narrowly avoid running into Yuushi as he walks towards the hospital wing and, dodging his outstretched hands, keep moving.

“Ran?”

“I’m fine!” I snap, glossing over his use of my birth name and, the door to my room finally in sight, pushing myself to move just that little bit faster. “And you can tell Yohji I’m fine too!”

“As you wish,” Yuushi replies calmly. “Oh, by the way… It’s good to see that you’re up and about.”

Droll. Very droll. 

If I didn’t feel as though I was careening down Alice’s rabbit hole I’d stop and inform him of this too. As it is though, as far as I’m currently concerned, Yuushi, along with every other damn thing, can just fucking well wait.

Reaching the room, I stagger through the doorway and head straight for the bed. Crawling onto the mattress, I pick the bracelet up and, settling on the segment of the bed I woke up on, lie on my side and curl into a ball, my heart beating dully in my chest. The acrid taste of nausea rises in my throat but, not wanting to move, I swallow it back down and, blinking back the futile tears I can feel welling yet again in the corners of my eyes, will myself to calm down. I feel sick, far sicker than when I woke up, but I don’t know if this is because I put my body under too much strain by being out of bed or… the other…

Whimpering, both at how pathetic I’m being and how sick I feel, I close my eyes and, as Yohji walks into the room, do my very best to pretend that I’m invisible. If I knew he wouldn’t take it the wrong way I’d tell him to go away, that I’m perfectly okay and perfectly capable of looking after myself but, not wanting to cause him either more concern or invite a lecture, force myself to remain silent.

“It’s okay, you don’t have to feel embarrassed or pretend that you’re not there,” Yohji murmurs, softly closing the door before walking over to the window and sliding it shut. “Yuushi explained why you freaked out and I apologize both for not thinking about it myself and for being foolish enough to let you out of the room when you’re clearly not up for it yet.”

“Hooray for Yuushi,” I mumble, wishing he’d never opened his mouth and tensing as Yohji sinks down on the other side of the mattress. “A little bit of information goes a long way with him.”

“I’m glad he was there to tell me,” Yohji replies, placing his hands on my shoulder and, despite the resistance I attempt to put up, succeeding in rolling me over. “It’s okay, Aya, honestly. It’s nothing to be ashamed about. You don’t like hospitals because of all of the time you had to spend in them with your sister and, trust me, I understand. It was careless of me…”

“Not just my sister,” I sigh, reluctantly resettling myself around Yohji’s leg and waist as he sits with his back propped up against the headboard. “I… I saw you in the hospital… Before you woke up, I saw you and… and it was like my sister all over again. I ran then too… Ken doesn’t even know that I visited you, but I did and I… I couldn’t cope…”

And… There. I’ve said it. It doesn’t go anywhere near excusing my loopy, weak behavior, but now he’s at least heard it from me. I hate hospitals and I hate seeing people I’ve made the mistake of caring about lying deathly still in a hospital bed and with their every breath and function being monitored by machines. First Aya-chan, then Yohji, and now Chloé. He mightn’t be in a coma but if he’s stuck in bed and deeply sedated then, visually, he may as well be. And, regardless of how much I want to see him, I just can’t do it.

“And you don’t want to see Chloé looking like that,” Yohji murmurs, carefully prying open my closed fist and, taking the bracelet, gently slipping it onto my wrist. “It’s okay and, again, I understand. Besides, you’re ill and not entirely with it yourself, which, as I’m sure you’ll agree, is making things just that little bit worse.”

“I’m pathetic,” I whisper, opening my eyes and, because I lack the courage to look up at Yohji, focusing blearily on my bracelet, the silver gleaming brightly against the pale flesh of my wrist as it rests limply on Yohji’s denim clad thigh. “I’m just… pathetic.”

“What you are is sick and emotional,” Yohji retorts, lightly tracing his finger over the bracelet and fanning the charms out. “You need to give yourself a break, my love. Seeing as this is the first time you’ve been fully conscious in three days I think you’re actually doing pretty well myself.”

“If you call this doing well then I’d hate to see what you’d call doing deplorably,” I mutter, pressing against Yohji and all but molding myself around him. “Maybe… I don’t know. Maybe I’ll be better after another nap.”

“You took the words right out of my mouth,” Yohji responds, relaxing against the bedhead and stroking my hair as though he’s using me as some sort of feline substitute or something. “Believe me when I say this though, Aya, Chloé really is fine. He just looks like he’s sleep…”

“Don’t,” I interrupt, closing my hand around Yohji’s leg, my fingers digging into the seam of his jeans. “I don’t want to hear about how he just looks like he’s sleeping as I *know*. They always look just like they’re sleeping. It… It doesn’t always mean they’re going to wake up when you want them to though…”

“Aya, it’s…”

“I don’t want to talk about it. If you want to talk then tell me about everyone else.”

“You mean, repeat everything I wasted my time on telling you last time I thought you were awake and with it?” Yohji murmurs with a laugh, his fingers still combing through my hair. “If that’s the case, I’d like a personal guarantee that this time you’re actually going to listen to and *retain* everything I have to tell you.”

“Promise,” I whisper, closing my eyes. “Just… Just talk to me, Yohji. Please. I know about Chloé and now I want to know about everyone else.”

“In any particular order?” Yohji queries, placing his free hand over mine and squeezing it.

“Your call,” I reply, yawning. “I don’t care.”

“Okay then, in that case I’ll start with Omi and Ken,” Yohji replies. “Omi, and I’m assuming here that you can’t remember this, is safe and, like everyone else, he’s here at Souzou. Schwarz, no doubt because they could and because it probably amused them in some sort of sick way, kept him locked in a freezer bay in a morgue for the majority of the time they had him. It wasn’t refrigerated, thankfully, but still… Well, think about it, how would *you* like being kept in a pitch black cubicle on a stainless steel tray that you knew usually held dead bodies?”

“Oh God…” Poor Omi. “Is he okay?”

“He’s alive and, apart from a few bruises here and there, uninjured,” Yohji responds, a tremor of sadness tinged anger entering his voice. “Mentally though… Shit. He hasn’t left his room since he got here and he can’t sleep without every light remaining on. Dr Miyazaki says that he’s in shock and that, apart from monitoring him and being there if he needs us, there’s not really a lot anyone can do for him.”

“He wasn’t…” Stopping myself, I sigh and pray to every benevolent deity mankind has ever known that the answer is in the negative. “Schuldig or Takeda, they didn’t…”

“No. You don’t even have to finish asking me as, no, they didn’t,” Yohji states firmly. “He’s bruised from being manhandled and from struggling against being locked in the bay, but other than that he’s physically okay. It’s just, yeah, his mental state that’s got us all a little worried.”

“And Ken?” I ask, thankful that Omi was spared at least one ordeal. “I take it that Ken’s okay and glued to Omi’s side?”

“Like a slightly taller Siamese twin,” Yohji replies blithely. “Apart from tearing open the stitches in his shoulder from carrying Omi out of Cathedral, Ken managed to make it through the night unscathed and, as you guessed, the only way you’d get him away from Omi’s side would be to knock him out and strap him down. He seems okay though and he’s even, while venturing out to the kitchen for sustenance, poked his head through the door a couple of times to check on you.”

“Maybe I’ll repay the favor next time I’m up,” I mutter, yawning again and hoping I remain awake long enough to get updates on everyone’s well being. “Free?”

“Having either the tarot or sheer physical size and fitness on his side, Free walked away from Cathedral without so much as a scratch on him,” Yohji responds, pulling his hand away from my hair and resting it on my shoulder. “Despite the offer to temporarily join the crew of Crashers’ Air, he’s been spending most of his time with Chloé and seems, I suppose you could say as usual, completely unfazed by just about everything that’s been going on around him.”

“Crashers Air?” I murmur dubiously, my mind completely and utterly at a loss to comprehend what exactly Yohji means by this. “Care to elaborate?”

“Leaving Yuushi to nurse his fractured ankle and severe concussion, the other three have taken their spiffy helicopter to Switzerland to pick up Yuki and Michel,” Yohji explains, laughing. “What did you think I meant?”

“I honestly have no idea,” I reply, a smile that’s equal parts relief and pleasure tugging on my lips. “Crashers’ Air… I like it. Given how precious they are about that damn helicopter, I bet they would too. The others though, I assume that they’re all okay…”

“Ignoring the fact that Free had to pull Ken off Naru when Cathedral went down, you could safely say that they came, they saw, and they blew the place to shit with no real physical loss whatsoever,” Yohji responds. “Even Yuushi’s injuries were minor and I think the only reason he chose to stay here was so that he could keep an eye on you.”

“Crap. Yuushi knows I can take care of myself,” I mutter dismissively, the idea of Knight worrying about me after all these years not exactly sitting comfortably on my shoulders. “He just must have been sicker or whatever then he wanted to let on.”

“If you say so,” Yohji murmurs, his tone of voice telling me I’m free to believe it even if he thinks what I’m saying is total garbage. “Hey, do you think they’ll bring the cats back from Switzerland too? While I can hardly believe I’m admitting this, I’ve actually been missing those two narky felines that you and Chloé delude yourselves with thinking belong to you. Hell, not only do I miss that disdainful look of Mystique’s when someone just happens to make the grievous error of feeding her something that doesn’t suit her delicate palate, but I’m also missing that grating sound Tantomile makes when she tries to knead my robe to death while I’m trying to go to sleep.”

“I can tell you now that they’ll be with Yuki and Michel,” I reply, stifling another yawn and snuggling closer to Yohji. “For starters, Michel wouldn’t leave Snowball behind and, knowing Reiichi, Mystique and Tantomile will have him wrapped around their paws to such an extent from the second he lays eyes on them that he wouldn’t dream of going without them. Trust me, the cats, all of them, will arrive with Yuki and Michel.”

“That’ll make five roaming around the place when that happens then,” Yohji responds, following my lead and yawning broadly. “Because we couldn’t possibly leave her at the embassy, Chanceaux’s here and so is a tiny gray cat that, apparently used to belong to us back in our Weiss days.”

“Kiri,” I whisper. “Her name’s Kiri and, yes, she used to be ours. We found her at the Dragon’s Tears when we moved in there and she stayed with us until we were made to travel around in that disgusting motor home. She used to hate poor Omi with a passion and, even though he loved her to death and never did anything to hurt her, would avoid him at all cost.”

“Well, get this then,” Yohji replies, “feline nature being nothing if not fickle, she’s now Omi’s number one fan and, like Ken, hardly leaves his room. It’s funny actually, despite climbing all over Chloé while she wandered around checking us all out, he clearly didn’t do anything for her as she went straight back to Omi. Given what you just said about her hating Omi though, why do you reckon that is? It seems a bit odd if you ask me.”

“Because, unlike the rest of us, Omi isn’t a stranger to her,” I sigh, finding nothing strange about Kiri’s change of character at all. “Apart from him, in his role as Persia, none of us have been back here since we left in the van and she probably holds it against us. Omi though, well, she’s seen him relatively frequently and that alone was likely to be enough to change her opinion of him. I’m sure Chloé… when he’s better… will agree with me.” 

“You mean he’ll… communicate… with her and find out for certain,” Yohji snickers, squirming a little further down the mattress. “Back to Mystique and Tantomile though, I hope you’re right and they *do* come with Yuki and Michel. I’m sure Chloé would like to see them as much as he’d like to see…”

“Don’t!” I exclaim, sitting up and, suddenly feeling both wide-awake and antsy, glowering at Yohji. “If you’re going to say as much as he’d like to see me, then just *don’t*! I feel guilty enough as it is without you…”

“I wasn’t actually going to say you at all,” Yohji interjects mildly as, with another yawn, he sits back up. “If you must know I was going to say Faith. You know, as in I’m sure Chloé would like to see him too.”

“Faith?” I mutter, peering at Yohji intently in order to reassure myself that he’s telling the truth and not just attempting to either save face or placate me. “Aren’t Rosary here too? I thought when you said that everyone was here that you meant them as well. Am I mistaken?”

“You’re not mistaken,” Yohji sighs, patting the mattress to indicate that he’d like me to lie down again. “Rosary… what’s left of them, anyway… are here, but Faith… Well, Faith, he…” Pausing, he shrugs and smiles grimly. “Now that you’ve been up for a while, do you remember what happened at Cathedral?” he continues hesitantly. “Has any of it come to you yet?”

“It’s not something I’ve cared to think about,” I murmur, half settling myself on the bed by lying on my side and, digging my elbow into the mattress, resting my cheek in the palm of my hand. “Given that I remembered what happened to Chloé when I held the bracelet I suspect it’s all still there and that I just haven’t had cause to refer back to it yet.”

Shifting around so that he’s fully facing me, Yohji runs his fingers through his hair and sighs again. “Do you remember killing Keegan?” he queries softly, his eyes locked on mine. “No… No one holds it against you, but we need to know what went down. Aya… It’s okay. You did what you had to do and…”

“I didn’t kill him,” I interrupt, reflexively hunching my shoulders and flinching as, with searing clarity, I suddenly recall everything that, as Yohji referred to it, ‘went down’. “He shot Chloé and I wanted to, I wanted to kill him more than I’ve wanted to kill anyone since Takatori, but… but I couldn’t.”

“It’s okay, Aya,” Yohji replies, shaking his head and giving me what I think is meant to be an encouraging look. “Keegan was a traitor and no one blames you for killing him. We just need to know the process of events, that’s all.”

“I didn’t kill him,” I repeat, flopping down on my back and staring up at the ceiling. “I wanted to, I wanted to hurt him for hurting Chloé and for selling us out, but the drug… whatever Takeda had injected me with… it… it all but paralyzed me. I could hear and… *see*… everything but I couldn’t move. Trust me though, if I could have, I would have. Bastard! Two-timing, piece of shit bastard! To think he’d been in cohorts with Schwarz all along, that he was going to hand his own brother back to Rosenkrus! I… Bastard! How… How could he?”

“But he was killed with your katana,” Yohji murmurs questioningly, stretching out alongside me and placing his hand on my waist. “Now, if you didn’t stick it through him, who did? It can’t have been Chloé as he…”

“Faith,” I state quietly, placing my hand over Yohji’s and closing my eyes. “Faith killed him. He killed him, his own brother, because, ultimately, he had no other choice. It was either kill Keegan or give up and be dragged back to Rosenkrus by Schwarz.”

“Faith killed him,” Yohji repeats in astonishment. “Oh my God. That… Shit. That explains a lot of things. He just grabbed your katana and ran it through his brother, that’s… Fuck. No wonder he’s so freaked out.”

“He didn’t just grab my katana,” I whisper, the bloody scene being replayed in my mind and making me wish we were talking about just about anything else. “Despite having been drugged with something that was supposed to neutralize his powers, he… he somehow picked the katana up telekinetically and… Oh God, you’ve never seen anything like it. The blade moved with such speed and with such force that I could have sworn I could still feel it being tugged out of my hands even as it slammed into Keegan. The bastard didn’t know what hit him, I’m sure of it.”

“Excuse me for not feeling sorry for him,” Yohji mutters, sighing. “Hell, Aya, we had no idea. We’ve learnt that Keegan had been Schuldig’s little fuck-buddy and that, his morals not being quite as high as Faith’s, his plan had been to help Schwarz capture his brother, but, shit, we didn’t know that Faith had been the one to kill him. Christ! That’s just fucking awful. Poor Faith. Not only is he having to deal with the death of his brother but he’s also having to come to terms with the fact that the little bastard had been going to sell him out. Again, it’s no wonder he’s acting the way he is.”

“Capturing Faith was Schwarz’s plan all along,” I murmur, the smug, superior tone of Schuldig’s voice as he made a point of sharing this with us ringing in my ears. “They didn’t care about Takeda and his plans to resurrect Ewigkeit and, while fucking with us made for a nice diversion, they were only in it for Faith. He was their goal.”

“And now he’s the one who’s having to pay for it,” Yohji replies, shifting closer and curling around me. “Faith… and I don’t know how else to put this… it’s as though he’s just totally shut down. He won’t talk or eat and just spends all his time sitting in an armchair by the window. Finlay and Jin are beside themselves and won’t leave his side. I’ve tried talking to him, and Free tried to get him to go and see Chloé, but he refuses to move. Dr Miyazaki has mentioned the possibility of having to give him a course of E.C.T. if he doesn’t start to eat soon but, well, going on their reaction to the idea I think Finlay and Jin would kidnap him before they allowed it to actually happen. He… He’s scary, Aya, just like a well dressed and exquisitely beautiful mannequin.”

“Schwarz strike again,” I respond hollowly, rolling over onto my side and nestling against Yohji. “I… Can we continue this conversation later? I want to sleep.”

Or, to be more exact, I want a break from having to remember Keegan’s betrayal and how everything disintegrated at Cathedral. I also want to get the sound of Schuldig’s voice and the sight of both Chloé getting shot and the look of torment on Faith’s face as he killed his brother out of my head before it all gets too much for me and I start to scream.

“Seeing as I’m not going anywhere,” Yohji murmurs, kissing my forehead, “that’s fine by me. Just go back to sleep. This can wait.”

“Thank you,” I whisper, clutching my fingers into Yohji’s top and luxuriating in the warmth emanating from his body and the reassuring, comforting sound of his breathing. “Just… Thank you…”

Thank you for being here and for not pushing me.

Thank you…

… for just being you.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

A burst of bass heavy, expletive laden rap music followed by the sound of tires being spun in gravel waking me, I throw the blanket off and groggily sit up. Night apparently having fallen, the window is covered by drapes and the only light in the room comes from a lamp on Yohji’s bedside table. Not finding an alarm clock or clock radio anywhere in the room, I don’t know what the time is and, realizing that I’m alone, wonder where Yohji is.

Yawning, I stretch tentatively and, the call of nature ringing my number, swing my legs over the edge of the mattress. On my bedside table is a bottle of Evian water with a Post-it note declaring ‘DRINK!’ stuck to it. Another note, this one telling me to ‘EAT’, lies next to a small glass bowl overflowing with individually wrapped sticks of barley sugar. Smiling even as I shake my head at Yohji’s mothering of me, I stand up and gingerly make my way into the bathroom. After relieving myself I wash my hands, my face, and, because paranoia is trying to convince me that I can still taste the sour flavor of vomit on my tongue, clean my teeth. 

Personal hygiene attended to, I then walk back into the room and, after finding a pair of boots falling out of one of the suitcases on the floor, return to my side of the bed to pull them on. When they’re on and my head has stopped spinning from bending over, I open the bottle of Evian and drink half of it before unwrapping a stick of barley sugar and popping it in my mouth.

It clearly not taking much to impress me at the moment, I’m mentally congratulating myself on functioning without help and, despite there being nowhere else I really want to be, am in the process of standing up to walk out of the room when the door opens and Yohji walks in. Carrying a bouquet of red, white, yellow, and pink long stemmed roses in a rectangular vase decorated, mosaic style, with purple and green tiles of varying shades, he smiles at me over the bobbing buds and places the vase on the chest-of-drawers.

“Nice, huh?” he states, wiping his hands on his jeans and leaning casually against the chest-of-drawers.

“Let me guess,” I mutter, moving around to the other side of the bed before sitting back down again, “a Dragon’s Tears special, yes?”

“What gave it away?” Yohji grins. “The… ah… *unique*… vase, or the Godforsaken racket the courier made leaving?”

“Both, actually,” I retort, looking the bouquet over critically and deciding, begrudgingly, that, really, it’s not too bad. Perhaps a little boring, but the flowers appear to be of good quality and the colors are mixed up nicely “They’re… nice… though, the flowers, that is.”

“Mmm… I got Sing to order them through Bengal and he arranged for them to be sent straight up,” Yohji replies, walking over to crouch in front of me. “How are you feeling? If I’d known you were awake I would have come back to check on you sooner.”

“The idiot courier and his deplorable taste in music woke me,” I murmur, shrugging, “so it’s not like I’ve been up long. As for how I’m feeling, I feel… okay. Perhaps a little weak, but still better than before. Don’t worry about me, Yohji. I’ll be fine.”

“Of course you’ll be fine,” Yohji replies, using my knees to lever himself upright with. “Oh, and I’m glad you like the flowers,” he continues, picking the vase up from the chest-of drawers and placing it next to the lamp on the bedside table. “When I saw the vase I thought you’d have a fit.”

“They’re lovely,” I respond, reaching out and lightly trailing my fingers across the roses’ soft petals. “You shouldn’t have though. They’re wasted on me and I really think you should give them to Chloé.”

“Who said anything about them being for you?” Yohji queries, flashing a particularly cheeky looking grin at me. “You can have them if you want, but I did actually get them for Chloé.”

“Then…” Am I missing something here? And, hell, why does Yohji keep looking at me as though he’s just biding his time before hitting me with something that I probably don’t want to hear? “Ah… Why have you brought them in here then? God knows if you want to give Chloé something that you don’t need my seal of approval first.”

“You’re damn right I don’t need your seal of approval first,” Yohji replies, still grinning. “What I have decided that I do need however is for you to deliver them for me. Seeing as it’s the thought that counts, I’ve done my bit. The rest is up to you.”

“Excuse me?” I murmur, glancing up and scowling at Yohji. “I’m your errand boy now, am I?”

“Not at all,” Yohji responds, returning to his position of leaning against the chest-of-drawers. “This is actually as much about you as it is Chloé. To put it another way… and, by the way, would you *please* stop looking at me like that… I want Chloé to have the roses and I want you to see Chloé. Come on, think about it. As simple plans go this one is pure genius.”

“You’re interfering in things that are of no concern of yours,” I mutter, shaking my head at the sheer nerve of his meddling. “I… I told you. It’s not that I don’t want to see Chloé, more that I… *can’t*.”

“I think you’ll find that it’s more that you don’t *want* to than can’t,” Yohji murmurs gently. “I *know* you have your reasons, Aya, and I both accept and acknowledge them. What’s more, I know that Chloé would too, that if he knew what I was doing he’d be as mortified as you are. That said…”

“That said, you’re butting in where you’ve got no damn right to be butting in,” I interrupt flatly. “You think I don’t want to see Chloé, *huh*? You think I *like* feeling like this? Goddamn it, Yohji! Do you want me to feel guilty or something, is that it? If not then, Christ, just leave me the hell alone. I feel bad enough already without you having a go at me as well.”

“And if you’d stop getting defensive for a second you’d hear me out and, possibly, with any luck, come around to my way of thinking,” Yohji responds, raising his eyebrow and looking as though he’s waiting for me to go off again before continuing. “Are you going to listen to me now?”

“You mean I have a choice?” I complain, grinding the barley sugar down between my back teeth and glowering at Yohji.

“Nope, no choice whatsoever,” Yohji replies, smiling at his perceived victory. “It’s like this, Aya. I was thinking about what you’d said about not wanting to see Chloé because you knew it would remind you of things that, well, you don’t want to be reminded of. Now, that’s fine, and you’ve got to believe me when I say that the last thing I want is to add to your feelings of guilt, but at the same time I think you have to make an effort to put it behind you and go to him.”

“You do, do you?” I mutter, suddenly, for reasons I’m not entirely sure about, wanting to hear what Yohji’s got to say. “And why’s that, huh? You said yourself that Chloé’s going to be fine, so it’s not like this is my last chance to see him or anything.”

“But what if it was?” Yohji retorts, his eyes lighting up as he realizes he’s managed to hook me. “What if he succumbed to an infection and wasn’t going to make it through the night, huh? Would you still avoid him then or would you find the courage to go and say goodbye?”

Snorting derisively, I don’t reply and peer at Yohji expectantly, the annoyance I’m feeling towards him for his meddling slowly dissipating. If Chloé was going to die…

Oh God. It’s not something I even want to, however fleetingly and regardless of how logical the reasoning may be, think about.

“Aya?” Yohji prompts, wandering over to sink down on the mattress next to me.

“Of course I’d go to him,” I sigh, shrugging as I turn to glance at Yohji. “Your argument though, it’s hypothetical and, as such, not one I feel any compulsion to pay any heed to. I *know* you weren’t lying earlier when you said that Chloé was going to be okay, so, come on, if you’re wanting to either appeal to my better nature or suck me in, I want to know what’s really behind this sudden change of heart.”

“I just don’t want you to have any reason for any regrets,” Yohji murmurs, shifting closer to me and resting his head on my shoulder. “I… Okay. I hadn’t particularly wanted to tell you this, but when Cathedral went down I honestly thought that I’d lost you… Chloé too… It… Christ, it was awful. I thought you’d both left me and the sense of loss was just… Well, it was obliterating.” Pausing, Yohji remains silent for a couple of seconds before sighing and picking up where he’d left of. “Then, once we were here and it was clear that you were both going to pull through, I started to think, you know, about life and how we’ve really got to make a point of living each day as though it’s going to be our last. To cut a long story short, I then started thinking about how important it is that those you care about know it, that they know how much they mean to you. I…”

Sitting up abruptly, Yohji stands up and, with a hand that I can’t help but notice is trembling slightly, pulls a pack of smokes out of his pocket. “I no longer loved Asuka, and I don’t regret following you that night, but what I do regret is not having said goodbye to her,” he states quietly, tapping a cigarette out of the pack and staring at it longingly. “She was kind to me when I needed someone most, I *had* loved her, and now she’s gone and I’ve lost my chance to tell her. And… regardless of the fact he’s now out of the woods, I just think it would do you, the both of you, actually, good if you’d put aside your memories and visit Chloé.”

“I’m sure Asuka knew that you’d loved her,” I reply lamely, glancing away from Yohji to the bouquet of roses as his peculiar line of logic begins to make a small degree of sense to me. “Perhaps… Maybe you’re right though. I *would* like to see Chloé and, yes, on this point you’re definitely correct, I’d never be able to live with myself if he died like this, but…”

“It’s down to you, Aya,” Yohji interrupts, standing in front of me and, placing his hand gently behind the back of my head, drawing our foreheads together. “I’ve interfered enough and said enough. Do what you want to do. If you want me I’m going to go have a smoke before fixing you something to eat in the kitchen.”

“Thank you,” I whisper, tangling my fingers in Yohji’s hair as he stands back and smiles at me wanly. “What you’ve said, I… I promise to think about it.”

“You do that,” Yohji replies, walking slowly out of the room, his limp the most pronounced I’ve seen it. “Oh, and Aya? I apologize if I’ve either offended or upset you. This was just something I had to do though and I hope you can see that.”

“I can see that,” I confirm softly, watching Yohji disappear through the door before standing up and going over to the bedside table. Bending down, I inhale the familiar, strong scent of the roses and sigh. I then, without giving myself time to think or talk myself out of it, pick the vase up and head out of the room. While my opinions on not wanting to see Chloé in a hospital bed haven’t changed in the slightest, I can’t deny the power of Yohji’s words and know that this is something I *have* to do. Sure, I could hide the roses in the bathroom and take to bed myself until the news filters in that Chloé’s well enough to be moved into a ‘normal’ room, but…

No.

Actually, I couldn’t. I could possibly try it, but I could never see it through. If I did it wouldn’t only be Yohji and Chloé that I’d be letting down but myself as well.

Walking down the oddly silent -- by my accounts there’s currently at least ten people residing at Souzou, not, however, that you’d know it by the lack of noise they’re making -- corridor, I make it as far as the junction that leads into the other two wings before the weight of the vase suddenly becomes too much for me and it starts to slip from my hands. Expecting it to shatter on impact with the floor, I cringe reflexively and take an instinctive step backwards. When it doesn’t reach the ground and comes to a sudden stop around shin level before floating up and hovering around my knees, I jerk my head up in shock and find Nagi, an empty glass in his hand, standing just to my right. 

Nagi.

As in the traitorous telekinetic creep who’s as prone to switching sides as others are to switching hairstyles. Clearly telling me that he was here must have -- ooops -- slipped Yohji’s mind.

“You!” I snap, glaring at Nagi, who, I think, going on the way he’s all but cowering, is as dismayed to see me as I am him. “Just what the fuck are you doing here, huh?”

“A-aba-abyssinian,” Nagi stutters, taking a hesitant step backwards as, his focus wavering, the vase slips closer to the floor and comes to a gentle rest. “I didn’t know you were up and…”

“Don’t try and change the topic,” I interrupt, scowling, the vase being the least of my concerns at the moment. “Now, I’ll try again. Why are you here? More to fucking point, how *dare* you! How dare you show your face around us? You… You bastard!”

“Nagi,” Yuushi interjects, walking through the door just behind Nagi and placing his hand lightly on his shoulder. “Surely you have somewhere else to be, yes?”

Looking relieved, Nagi flashes Yuushi a grateful smile and nods. “I was just going to get a drink,” he murmurs tentatively, his wide-eyed gaze locked on his savior

“Off you go then,” Yuushi replies, gesturing down the corridor that leads past my room. “I’ll explain everything to Ran.”

“Explain *what*?” I grind out as, without once looking me in the eye, Nagi slides past me. “Yuushi? Just what the hell is going on? What’s *he* doing here?”

“He had nowhere else to go,” Yuushi responds mildly, picking the vase up and smiling benignly at the roses. “These are…”

“What do you mean he had nowhere else to go?” I mutter, cutting Yuushi off as, the shock of running so unexpectedly into Nagi finally hitting me, I have to go over to the wall in order to lean against it. “I mean, you can’t possibly be telling me that hell was full?”

“Ran…”

“He returned to form, rejoined Schwarz, and, just in case that wasn’t enough for you, was instrumental in abducting Omi… or Mamoru… or Persia… or whatever damn name you use to refer to him by!” I shout, feeling my blood pressure rise with my temper. “For God’s sake, Yuushi, he shouldn’t be here and you know it!”

“What I do know is that if it weren’t for Nagi we wouldn’t be standing here having this conversation,” Yuushi responds, his expression unreadable as he looks at me over the roses. “Yohji didn’t tell you?”

“Yohji didn’t tell me *what*?” I query flatly, leaning limply against the wall as only sheer determination keeps me upright. “If you’ve got something to tell me then just get it over and done with. I do, after all, have somewhere I’d rather be.”

“It was Nagi who got us out of Cathedral,” Yuushi explains matter-of-factly, shifting the vase to his right hand and offering me his left elbow. “Come on, I’ll walk you to your destination.”

“I don’t need…” Trailing off as Yuushi’s expression changes to one of fond amusement, I link my elbow with his and sigh. “What do you mean Nagi got us out of Cathedral?”

“When it started to fall down around us he made a path through the flames and the debris that we could make our way through,” Yuushi responds, tightening his grip on my elbow and leading me further down the corridor. “If he hadn’t arrived when he did, and I really hate to say this as it would have meant that I’d totally misjudged the circumstances, then there’s no way that we would have made it.”

“Oh.” Frowning, I glance at Yuushi and shake my head. “I didn’t know. Mind you, just because he proved to be useful doesn’t mean that I have to like him or feel happy about him being here.”

Indebted to Nagi. Great. I wonder what else Yohji hasn’t yet told me.

“Of course not,” Yuushi murmurs agreeably enough as we slowly make our way towards Chloé’s room. “I would, however, appreciate it if you’d subscribe to the ‘live and let live’ school of thought where Nagi is concerned as, regardless of his past wrongs, I am convinced that he’s once again on our side.”

“Until he chooses to change his mind again,” I mutter sourly, “but, fine. For you, and because I currently lack the energy to sort him out, I’ll leave Nagi alone. That’s so long as he stays out of my way though.”

“Don’t worry about Nagi, he’ll stay out of your way,” Yuushi replies, watching me with a degree of concern that tells me he firmly expects me not to make it. “He has already become adept at second guessing Ken’s movements and, for his own good, he knows that it’s best that he stays around Rosary, around… his own kind.”

“Lucky Rosary,” I murmur as we come to a stop in front of Chloé’s door. “As if Keegan fucking us all over wasn’t enough they’re now stuck babysitting…”

“I think this is your stop,” Yuushi states, coolly cutting me off and pulling his arm away. “Ran? This was where you were heading, yes?”

“Yes, I was going to see Chloé,” I confirm, taking the roses back from Yuushi as a totally out-of-the-blue, surprising, thought enters my head. 

“Ran?” Taking a step back, Yuushi gives me a quizzical look. “Are you okay? You look a little… surprised or something.”

Smiling, I gesture up the corridor before placing my hand on Yuushi’s arm. “I was just thinking that this is the first time I haven’t made this walk alone.”

“This walk? I’m sorry, I don’t quite understand,” Yuushi replies, glancing up the corridor and looking bewildered.

“To a hospital room to see someone I… I happen to care about,” I explain, still smiling at the simplicity of the fact. “Every other time I’ve had to do it by myself, I… I’ve always been alone.”

“But you’re not alone now,” Yuushi responds, returning my smile warmly. “In fact, I have this feeling that you’re now surrounded by more people that care about you than you sometimes know what to do with. Am I right?”

“It’s certainly different,” I murmur softly, turning away from Yuushi to face the door. “I like to think that I’m coping though.”

“I suspect you’re coping admirably,” Yuushi replies, knocking on the door for me before starting to walk back down the corridor. “I’m actually proud of you, Ran. You’ve not only survived but you’ve successfully turned your entire life around and for that you have both my congratulations and my admiration.”

Embarrassed by Yuushi’s praise, I don’t know what to say and am saved from having to come up with some suitably mundane response by the door opening and Free materializing in front of me. As Yohji had mentioned, he’s looking as fit and as healthy as he was when we left for Cathedral and I have to fight back the fleeting sense of jealousy I feel at this. For all the help I’ve been since landing in Tokyo, I honestly may as well have stayed in London. But… Whatever. I’m still here and, not wanting to be petty, I’m glad that Free is uninjured.

“Aya,” Free murmurs, opening the door further and gesturing me into the room. “It is good to see you.”

“It’s good to see you too,” I reply, both my nerve and my grip on the vase faltering as I take an unsteady step through the door. “I just came to see Chloé,” I add pointlessly, my heartbeat speeding up at the thought of actually having to go through with this, of finding myself once again hovering in a hospital room. “The flowers… Yohji thought…”

“I am pleased that Yohji was able to keep his promise,” Free states cryptically, taking the flowers from me as, suddenly feeling naked without them to hide behind, I hurriedly glance down at the floor. “Come in, Aya. Chloé has been waiting for you.”

Lifting my gaze to the level of the foot of the bed, I realize that the room isn’t lit like the average hospital room is in a harsh fluorescent glow and, encouraged by this, stand up a little straighter in order to locate the source of the soft, golden light. Looking around, I find a tall, Art Deco style lamp set up in the corner of the room and a far smaller, more modern looking lamp on the bedside table and, pleased by this, nod to myself. So far so good. Rose scented incense burns both at the base of the Art Deco lamp and in the corner by the door and this, perhaps even more than the dull lighting, helps disguise the fact that the room is actually meant to be a hospital room. Next to the bed and in front of the bedside table, with a hardback novel sitting on its arm, is a comfortable looking armchair. If not for the very much hospital looking bed and the bank of monitors I can see hidden behind a silk screen, the room would almost be like one you’d find in a motel.

Placing the roses on the bedside table, Free quickly rearranges the bouquet to meet his standards before picking his book up from the chair and walking back over to me. “I will leave the pair of you alone,” he murmurs, my behavior, if it’s even striking him as odd, clearly not being something he feels any need to pass comment on. 

“Uh, thanks,” I whisper, barely feeling Free’s hand as, passing me, he ghosts it over my shoulder. Alone, I put off the inevitable for a few more seconds by closing the door before making my way over to the armchair and, still without once having looked at the bed, seating myself on the edge of it. Seated, and with no other diversions to stop me, I force myself to -- be brave -- look at the pale and quite frankly frail looking figure lying deathly still on the mattress. 

Although I’d been expecting Chloé to look ill, the sight of him still causes me to gasp and, ashamed of myself for overreacting, I quickly look away. Perched on the foot of bed, with her fur all sleep ruffled and her tail wrapped primly around her, is Chanceaux, her slitted eyes watching me unwaveringly. Yawning daintily, she turns around, pointedly presenting her back to me in the process, and settles down to sleep. While I could be wrong, I think her outright dismissal of me could be her way of sharing her disapproval or disappointment in my wishy-washy behavior. Again, I could simply be hallucinating from lack of food or general physical weakness, but I honestly have this feeling that even Chanceaux expected better from me.

Shaking my head, I sigh softly and drag the armchair closer to the bed. I then, because it’s something I *want* to do as much as it’s something I know I *have* to do, place my hand over Chloé’s and gently squeeze it. Just as my sister’s had been, his hand is both cold and smooth and I have to fight the urge to flinch at how unnatural it feels under my touch, how unlike his hand usually feels.

Emboldened by having raised the courage to make the first move, I lean forward in the chair and pick his hand up, bringing it up to rest against my cheek. My skin breaking out in goosebumps at the clammy feeling of his skin against mine, I look at Chloé and thank every God ever known to mankind that he’s still alive, that I haven’t lost him.

Too close. It was just… too damn close.

“Don’t you *ever* do this to me again,” I murmur thickly, pressing his cold hand harder against my cheek and closing my eyes. “I don’t know if you can hear me, but I’m telling you now that you’re not to ever scare me like this again. Do I make myself clear? No nearly dying on me and no having to recuperate in hospital beds. I… I just can’t take it.”

“A… Aya?”

Mentally berating myself for having been selfish and foolish enough to wake him, I open my eyes and look cautiously at Chloé as his eyes slowly flicker open. “It’s me,” I whisper, placing his hand back on the bed but not letting it go. “Sorry I haven’t been to see you before, only… Well, let’s just say I haven’t been that healthy myself.”

Wincing from the effort, Chloé turns his hand over and closes his fingers around mine. “They… They said you were here,” he murmurs hoarsely, “but I… I didn’t believe them. I couldn’t… Not until I saw you with my own eyes. Aya…”

“Shhh… It’s okay. I’m here now and I’m not going anywhere,” I reply, the words coming easily to me now as everything falls neatly and effortlessly into place. I hadn’t wanted to come, granted, but now that I’m here I know not only that I’m in the right place but also that there’s nowhere else I’d rather be. 

So, yes. Yohji was right and I was wrong. Terribly wrong. 

“It’s all right, Chloé,” I continue, squeezing his hand back as, too weak to remain awake for anything more than a few minutes, his eyes slip closed. “I’m here and I’m going to stay with you. So, shhh, go back to sleep. If I’m not here when you wake up then I promise I won’t be far away. You… You’re…” Trailing off as I realize that Chloé’s already asleep, I smile faintly and, as the door opens quietly and Yohji walks into the room, quickly decide that the rest of what I’d been going to say is probably best kept to myself anyway.

Nodding a greeting at me, Yohji pauses at the head of the bed to brush Chloé’s hair back from his face before walking over and placing his hand on my shoulder. Although there’s plenty of things he could say, he remains silent and, grateful for this, I cross my free arm over my chest and rest my hand on Yohji’s. Given that my other hand is still squeezing Chloé’s, I can’t deny the symbolism of our three-way connection and how it leads into what I’d almost been going to say.

… And that’s, regardless of what it might mean for the future, how they both appear to be well and truly stuck with me. I might not want to be in this position, and I definitely never thought it would be the sort of position I’d ever find myself in, but here I am, comfortably settled between two men.

Two men, neither of whom I happen to be prepared to give up on. Not Chloé. Not Yohji. I won’t, I *can’t*, lose either of them. 

What this is going to ultimately mean isn’t something I can answer, however. All I know for certain is that, selfishly, I’m somehow found myself in a position that I like and want to remain in.

Be it right or wrong, workable or not, there has to be a way to continue the status quo, to keep it just as it has been.

There just has to be.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Stepping through the front door, I scowl at the gray sky and turn the collar of my coat up to protect the back of my neck from the light drizzle of rain that has been steadily falling since sunrise. Three straight days of throwing up and sleeping followed by another two of mooching around aimlessly having achieved what medication couldn’t, my cold finally appears to be a thing of the past and, seeing as I simply can’t take being indoors any longer, I hope that by going outside in the rain that I’m not asking for it back again. Then again, for my sanity’s sake if nothing else, I have to say, given the alternatives, that I honestly have no qualms about running the risk.

*Thwack*!

Clenching my jaw as Ken’s soccer ball, just as it has been for the past thirty Godforsaken minutes, hits the kitchen wall, I pull the door quietly shut and head across the lawn to the hideous and ill-designed gazebo. Painted a blinding white and looking as though it would be perfectly at home in the Deep South of America, the gazebo offends me on just about every possible level. It’s ugly, poorly constructed, and, like all the so-called renovations that have been done at Souzou since we left, has fuck all in common with the estate’s history and theme. Although it’s clearly escaped the attention of the Kritiker hierarchy -- and, because he’s not well, I’m currently making a point of overlooking Omi’s involvement in the disgrace -- Souzou is meant to be a little piece of England in the heart of Japan. What it is *not* meant to be however is a hodge-podge of convalescent home, training facility, hospital, and -- going on the size of the newly built on conference room -- convention center. They’ve even, and if I ever find out who gave this particular order I’m going to let them have it, torn out half of the rose garden in order to put in a car park.

The roses, not that anyone seems to care, were part of Souzou’s original gardens and had all been brought in to Japan from London in the middle of the nineteenth century. They’d also, again, not that anyone seems the slightest bit bothered by this, managed to both survive and thrive for the better part of two centuries. When we left three years ago they’d been in bloom and I can still remember how beautiful they’d looked. Now, the few bushes that remain look sick and I very much doubt any of them will ever flower again. And, yes, it disgusts me. Disgusts me greatly.

*Thwack*!

Wishing I had a tranquillizer dart in my pocket to put Ken -- out of his misery -- to sleep with, I shove my hands deep in the pockets of my coat and increase my pace. If, by chance, I can still hear the soccer ball in the gazebo then I think I may just snap. I’m trying to be tolerant, I really am, but there’s only so much of a loud, monotonous sound that I can take and I’m at the point where I just know I won’t be able to take much more of it.

*Thwack*!

My jaw feeling as though it’s in danger of being locked in place from clenching it, I reach the gazebo and, running up the steps, make my way across to the wrought iron chair at the back. Sitting down, I fastidiously rearrange my coat around me until my knees are fully covered and, because I was stupid enough to venture outside without gloves, place my hands under my armpits to keep them warm. Although I’d prefer not to be able to, I can see Ken from where I’m sitting but, thankfully, the ‘thwacking’ sound of the ball impacting with the house is down to that of a dull thud.

Oblivious to both the rain and the cold air, Ken keeps kicking and retrieving the ball with the unwavering focus of a man possessed with wanting to keep moving. While I don’t know what’s set him off for certain, I suspect it has something to do with Omi rousing himself enough this morning to request a laptop. Because it meant he was showing signs of life and wanting to pull himself together, Ken, at first, had been delighted by this. He even, with an obvious sense of pride and relief, made sure everyone knew that the laptop he’d picked up out of the office wasn’t for himself but for Omi. Despite only being a small thing, he’d been so happy that, putting my own ominous thoughts aside for a moment, I couldn’t help but feel slightly happy for him in turn. He’d been smiling and…

And now he’s outside in the rain trying to take all his frustrations out on a soccer ball. 

I think, although I was with Chloé in his room at the time and I don’t know how much of Michel’s garbled explanation I can take as gospel, that once Omi had the laptop set up he sent Ken out of the room with some sort of dismissive comment about wanting to ‘look into official channels’. 

Official channels that, clearly, didn’t concern Ken.

If I’d cared I would have gone to Omi and asked whether they didn’t concern me or any of the other people in the house either, but, well, now that he’s safe I have to say that I’m not that particularly interested in either him or his Persia power trip. I’d have thought, given their history and how much Ken still cares about him, that he would have been a little more gentle with his one time lover, but, no. His… Takatori *birth right*… calling to him more than his old friends, it’s clear that he’s still operating firmly under his own agenda and to hell with anyone who dares think they can get in his way.

It’s a horrible thing to think, and I’m not exactly going to voice it to anyone any time soon, but I don’t think I like Omi very much any more. Although he ‘Aya-kun’ed’ me with a degree of his usual inane enthusiasm when I first poked my head into his room, there was something, an accusing hardness, in his eyes that I didn’t much care for. Yes, we took six days to find him, but, Christ, it’s not like we spent the time touring Tokyo and generally relaxing. Nor could we help everything that happened while he was being held captive. If he knows, if Ken’s told him what we had to go through just to get to Cathedral, then I have this suspicion that it’s not something he feels greatly concerns him.

Yuushi doesn’t much like him either. He hasn’t said so in as many words, and he *won’t*, but the blandly polite way he talks about Omi, his *boss*, tells its own story. A small part of me, the part that remembers Omi as -- an integral part of Weiss and a *friend* -- he had been, feels sorry for him because I know the self-imposed weight he’s carrying on his shoulders is both changing him and cutting him off from his past. The rest of me however says that the bed he’s in is entirely of his own making and that no one can get him out of it other than himself. And if he doesn’t want to get out of it, then who am I to interfere? Just as I am part of his, Omi is part of my history and if that’s where he’s going to remain then so be it.

Ken’s assault on the kitchen wall finally rousing a couple of inhabitants from the house, I watch as the back door opens and both Yohji and Free step outside. Looking displeased to see them, Ken gives the ball a particularly vicious kick and sends it flying merely centimeters away from Yohji’s nose. This, not overly surprising, pissing Yohji off, he waves his fist at Ken and, going on the speed of his mouth moving up and down, shares with him, loudly and in detail, the error of his ways. Shrugging his disinterest at Yohji, Ken catches the ball on its rebound with his knee and, with a style and skill that he hasn’t lost since his J-League days, kicks the ball towards Free. His expression not changing in the slightest, Free reaches out his left hand and catches the ball with what can only be described as nonchalant ease. He then, with Yohji in tow, turns around and calmly walks, ball still in hand, back inside.

Suddenly deprived of his toy, Ken glowers at the back door for a moment before pulling off his top -- as one does when it’s cold and raining and one has a still healing shoulder wound -- and takes off at a fast run towards the obstacle course. Hidden behind what remains of the Enchanted Forest, the obstacle course, like the rose garden destroying car park and revolting American styled gazebo, offends me no end. With its stupid walls to climb and rows of tires to run through, it looks as though it should be part of an army base somewhere. I *get* the part it plays in ensuring agents are fit enough to return to active duty, but, logic sometimes not being all it’s cracked up to be, that doesn’t mean I like it.

In fact, I hate it.

What’s more, I also hate what Souzou’s become and how… unsettled… I’m becoming just by being here. I hate how it’s changed and how, under the clinical name of advancement, it’s lost both its tradition and the sense of home and comfort I used to derive from it. 

Ironically, there was a time when, if I was feeling weak enough to allow myself the indulgence of making futile wishes, Souzou was where I always wished I could be. Ignoring how we’d come to be there in the first place, Souzou held so many memories, so many *powerful* memories for me that, again, if I was low, it was like my own personal holy grail. I learnt so much during our all too brief stay here that, to this very day, it colors the person I am now. 

It was here, in the house as it had been and how it should *still* be, that I accepted both Yohji’s love and, although it was a struggle at first, his touch. It was also here that I re-gained the ability to actually feel pleasure at living. Ultimately, while it was Yohji who saved me, first from Kimura and then from my own demons, even if for no other reason than it provided the setting, Souzou still holds a special place in my heart. I can even, given the book on Souzou, the one Aya-chan defaced with her lipstick Koi, that my parents used to have, link memories of my family here. 

Now, however, it’s just not the same. Nowhere near the same. The house and gardens are barely recognizable from how we left them and, I don’t know, nothing just seems to feel right.

Or, alternatively, I’m simply the one who isn’t feeling right.

It’s odd. Despite having effectively ‘won’ and knowing that we’re no longer under direct attack, instead of feeling relieved or relaxed about things I just feel… out of sorts. What makes the vague, somewhat unsettling feeling even worse though is that I don’t know *why* I’m feeling like it. We’re safe, Michel, Yuki -- and the cats -- have joined us, Chloé, so long as he listens to what everyone is telling him and stays in bed, is going to be fine, Yohji’s leg is healing nicely and he’s in high spirits, Schwarz, according to Nagi, would have been recalled to Rosenkrus for punishment for having failed to capture Faith, I’m fully up-to-date with all the specifics of what went down, and…

And yet something, for some unknown reason, still isn’t quite right. Again, it’s just odd. I’m not worried about Schwarz mounting another attack, nobody I care about died, we’ll be going back to London as soon as Chloé is well enough to travel… Hell. Faith’s condition and whatever it is that’s going on between Omi and Ken aside, everything’s as fine as I could have hoped for it to be, but…

Fuck it. I don’t know. Something’s just… off. Yohji thinks that I’m probably just bothered by how easily Takeda and Schwarz played us and, not being able to come up with any viable alternatives myself, maybe he’s right. God knows, given how *spectacularly* we were played, it’s not as though it isn’t a reasonable assumption to make. From the second I dutifully fell into the trap of picking up the flier for the dance party that led me to Wapping, we were, and really, there’s no two ways of looking at it, operating totally in the dark. Worse, if it hadn’t been for Nagi -- changing sides yet again -- getting in contact with Crashers and bringing them to Cathedral, then, and again there’s no denying it, things would have come to a very different conclusion.

As with every other relevant aspect of the mission, we didn’t have a clue that contained within the laboratories in Cathedral’s basement were not only copies of Dr Mirimoto’s original research -- the alleged destruction of which brought us to Kimura’s attention in the first place -- into human cloning but also a number of doctors busily working on perfecting it. While Takeda thought he was continuing Kimura’s passion for cloning and was perhaps even entertaining delusions of cloning either his wife or brother, Schwarz, under the instructions of Rosenkrus, were simply waiting until they had Faith before packing it all, doctors no doubt included, up and taking it back with them.

History and personal experience making him wary of advancing Rosenkrus’s foray into cloning, this idea didn’t sit particularly well with Nagi and, proving once and for all that he’s as fickle and as changeable as the weather, he decided that it couldn’t be allowed to happen. His time with Kritiker giving him the knowledge on how to track down Crashers, he brought them up to speed on what Schwarz’s ultimate plan was and asked that they destroy the labs and the research before the data was placed in the wrong hands. Thinking it was a good idea and knowing that we were going to be on the ground to rescue Omi, Yuushi agreed. Everything happening so fast though, Singapura didn’t know any of this until we were already en route to Cathedral. Even if she had though, it wouldn’t have altered our plans any except for maybe moving a little faster because we knew we had a definite time line to operate under.

Not knowing about Keegan, about our threat from within, the plan we went in under was as good as it was capable of being. Even now, with the benefit of hindsight, I can’t see how it could have been improved. Go in. Find Omi. Find and kill Takeda. Hopefully avoid Schwarz at all costs. Get out. Simple, granted, but given the circumstances and everyone’s health or moral, certainly achievable. 

Well, or so we’d thought anyway.

Sighing, I catch the sight of movement out of the corner of my eye and, looking over towards the house, watch Yuushi walk through the front door. Opening a large white golf umbrella to protect him from the rain, he glances over at the gazebo and, upon noticing me staring back at him, frowns. Uncertain as to whether Yuushi’s doubtful expression should be cause for concern or not, I stand up and walk over to the steps of the gazebo to wait for him as he makes his way across the lawn.

“What is it?” I call out, doubt tinged curiosity getting the better of me, as he nears the steps. “Is everything okay? Is *Chloé* okay?”

“Chloé’s fine,” Yuushi replies, giving me an odd, almost knowing look as, closing the umbrella, he walks up the steps into the gazebo. “When I walked past his door he was trying to convince both Free and Dr Miyazaki that he was going to go mad if they didn’t relent and let him out of the room.” Pausing, he places his umbrella by the steps and brushes imaginary raindrops off the collar of his coat. “Why do you ask?” he adds, giving me another look as he sits down on the park bench that’s set up alongside the chair I’d been sitting on.

Why do I ask? Christ. What a question.

“I thought you looked worried about something,” I mutter, deciding -- in the hope of diverting his attention -- against casually reminding Yuushi that, well, Chloé’s recovering from having been shot three times and that there’s still a chance, if he pushes himself too hard, he may suffer a relapse. “That’s all,” I add, aiming for a dismissive tone to my voice but ending up sounding, to my annoyance, slightly defensive instead.

“I have heard it said by those who thought I was not within hearing range that I *always* look worried,” Yuushi replies with a benign smile as he gestures for me to sit back down. “Come on, Ran. Surely you have heard that said as well.”

“Well I just thought you looked *particularly* worried,” I respond flatly, sitting down and resettling myself with my coat draped just right over my knees and my hands jammed under my armpits. “Just… Forget it. I jumped the gun and that’s all there is to it.”

“I was actually, if it helps put your mind at rest, thinking about a couple of those cats of yours,” Yuushi replies, shaking his head at the no doubt pitiful, half frozen and huddled looking picture I make. “Actually, Ran, should you even be out here given that you’ve only just recovered from a cold?”

“So long as I don’t move from this position, I’m fine,” I mutter, glossing over Yuushi’s concerns for my health and giving a hunched shrug. “Now, why on earth were you thinking about the cats? If they’re annoying you then just chase them away or, if that doesn’t work and I’m not around, call Yohji to rescue you. While they don’t often pay him any heed, he at least knows how to bribe them to behave with promises of their favorite foods.”

“I doubt that would work in this instance,” Yuushi responds, glancing back across at the house and frowning. “I take it that you don’t know what they’re currently engaged in doing?”

“Last I saw of Tantomile and Mystique, and I assume they’re the two you’re talking about here, they were… helping… Dr Miyazaki change the dressings on Chloé’s wounds,” I reply, suppressing an amused smile at the memory. The look of disbelief on the doctor’s face in particular was almost worthy of being committed to film. “Dr Miyazaki, as I’m sure you can imagine, wasn’t at all impressed.”

“And nor would I have been,” Yuushi retorts, the look on his face clearly saying that he finds the idea quite frankly repulsive if not downright offensive. “But, yes, they are the two that I am referring to. Having finished their… nursing… duties, and despite the fact it is raining, they are both out at the Koi pond… fishing.”

“Fishing?” I echo, mental images of cats holding fishing rods in their paws making me laugh. “Go on. What do you mean they’re *fishing*?”

“I mean exactly that,” Yuushi states, his frown intensifying. “The black one appears to be, I don’t know, hypnotizing the Koi in order for the other one, the one that looks like a miniature leopard, to dive a paw into the pond and capture them. I have honestly never seen anything quite like it before.”

“Oh.” Given that I’m not at all surprised by any of this, I don’t know what else Yuushi expects me to say and give another of my hunched shrugs.

“This does not… bother you?” Yuushi queries, settling back on the bench and looking at me closely.

“I can’t really say that it does,” I reply, meeting Yuushi’s gaze and giving a quick shake of my head. “A cat, after all, has got to do what a cat’s got to do. Once caught, are the fish being eaten?”

“Yes.” Pausing, Yuushi wrinkles his nose. “Whole, in fact. Watching them devour it was almost enough to totally put me off cats, actually. It was just… macabre.”

“Don’t let Tantomile and Mystique get to you. They’re really not as scary as they’re pretending to be,” I murmur, amused as much by Yuushi’s reaction to their fishing techniques as I am the fact they’re braving the elements in order to prove who’s boss to the Koi. “If you want to rectify this sudden loathing of cats before Reiichi hears of it and takes it upon himself to cure you personally, then I suggest finding either Kiri or Snowball and spending some quality time with them. Kiri, if it helps with your new mantle of defender of Koi everywhere, gave up… fishing… after she misjudged her position on a stepping stone one day and fell into the pond. Unless her courage has returned since that day, I think the Koi are definitely safe from her.”

“Kiri is the small gray one who has been guarding Persia, yes?” Yuushi responds, his expression momentarily closing over. “If so, I would be loathe to encroach on her. As for Snowball, and I am assuming she is the white powder-puff on legs, she is actually helping out in the kitchen by licking the mixing bowl clean of cookie dough. And, again, I would not wish to interrupt.”

“Have it your way then,” I reply, glancing out at the lawn as, clearly settling in for the afternoon, the rain begins to fall more heavily. “Now, as much as I’m enjoying this conversation about the cats, what are you really doing out here, Yuushi? Forgive me for being skeptical but I somehow doubt you simply wished to inform me of Tantomile and Mystique’s Koi slaughtering exploits.”

Sighing, Yuushi nods as I look back towards him. “You are, of course, correct. The reason I came out to look for you was actually to inform you that we will be leaving tomorrow.”

“Oh.” Damn. Despite knowing that it was inevitable and that it was always going to happen sooner rather than later, I still hadn’t seen that one coming. “That’s… ah… sudden.”

“We are not injured and there is no reason for us to remain here,” Yuushi responds quietly, folding his gloved hands in his lap and staring down at them. “We also have work to do.”

“Work?” I mutter, leaning forward and trying unsuccessfully to get Yuushi to meet my gaze. “Is this something I need to know about?”

“Not especially, no,” Yuushi replies, directing his answer to his lap. “Persia simply wishes for us to begin assisting in the formation of the new teams. While Krypton Brand survived this debacle relatively unscathed and, please, I do not mean to make light of Chloé’s condition and trust you understand what I am trying to explain here, Kritiker were hit hard and we are currently the only full team still in operation. As we will never fulfill the role of Weiss, it is imperative that new teams are formed and formed quickly. Now that he has recovered, it is Persia’s number one priority.”

“And is… *Persia*… going with you?” I query flatly, my already less than high opinion of Omi in danger of slipping even further. Although I can see the logic in sending Crashers off to help bring together and train the next generation of Weiss, what I can’t quite appreciate is the abrupt, almost dictatorial way he seems to be going about it. When I looked in on Omi yesterday he was still hiding out in his bed and yet now he’s issuing forth with instructions and generally behaving as though nothing ever happened, that he’s fine? No wonder then that Ken’s reacting the way he is.

“I believe that Singapura will be coming tomorrow to take Persia back to Tokyo,” Yuushi murmurs, looking up and smiling grimly. “He is of the opinion that he will be better able to oversee the… rebuild… from his office.”

“You mean he wants to retreat behind his title and get away from both his… less commanding… past and the damaged, human side of things he’s currently having to reside with,” I complain sourly, not even wanting to think about how bad Ken’s mood is going to be for the next few days or how much of a lasting effect Omi’s dismissal is going to have on him. “Oh well. Good luck to him. I hope the rebuild is successful and that he is not haunted by any of the recent events.”

“If he is haunted he will hide it with his work,” Yuushi replies, shrugging. “Being mere field operatives, we simply do as we are told and that is the real reason for our departure. I would have liked to have remained longer so as to have gotten to better know your new team but, unfortunately, in this instance it is not to be.”

“If you can bring yourself to brave the horrible felines, you are always welcome to visit us in England,” I offer, the pleasure I’ve felt in just knowing that Yuushi’s been around the last couple of days allowing me to extend the invitation without hesitation. “Actually, on that note, I’ve got to say I’m almost envious of the fact that you’re getting to leave tomorrow. I… God. I’d leave today if I could.”

“You do not like it here at Souzou?” Yuushi murmurs, looking vaguely surprised. “But I thought…”

“It’s not the same,” I interrupt, unfolding my arms and, reaching out, flicking my finger against the wall of the gazebo. “Take a look around you. Nothing’s… right. The roses were ripped up for a Goddamn car park, the forest for an obstacle course, and this, this monstrosity, deserves to be bulldozed. I… Shit. I know you’re probably going to think this sounds stupid or even irrational, but I hate it. Everything’s been… distorted and, to me anyway, destroyed. This isn’t Souzou. Not how it was or even how it’s meant to be. It serves a purpose, granted, but I don’t like it.”

“Then why do you stay here?” Yuushi queries, a frown once again settling over his face. “Surely you could, if you wished, return to England.”

Shrugging, I blow on my hands in an attempt to warm them before giving up and pulling the sleeves of my coat down as far as I can manage to cover them. “Chloé’s not yet well enough to travel so, no, we can’t return… home.”

“Could he not remain here though, perhaps with Free as company, while the rest of you went back…”

“No,” I state flatly, cutting Yuushi off and promptly scoring myself yet another one of his knowing, ‘incidentally, I’m on to you’ looks. “When we return we return as a team,” I continue hurriedly, despite knowing full well that the damage has already been done courtesy of the vehemence of my initial response. “Besides, I told Yohji that before we leave we’ll all go with him to visit his wife’s grave. And that, needless to say, has to include Chloé. It… It just wouldn’t mean the same to Yohji otherwise.”

“Of course,” Yuushi replies easily, a blink-and-you’d-miss-it smile flashing over his lips. “On the subject of Yohji, I am impressed with how little he has changed. I would even go so far as to say he seems content. Bringing him into Krypton Brand was certainly a good move on your behalf.”

“Not wanting you to over credit it, what it was actually was a spur-of-the-moment mistake that thankfully paid off,” I mutter, fighting hard to suppress the urge to shiver as a particularly cold breeze blows through the gazebo. “Yohji though… Well, I think you’re right. While his memory has not returned he is nonetheless content with his life and… and I am… glad. Everyone adores him and he has settled in far better than anyone could have hoped.”

And… Okay… How about giving me a break and leaving the subject of Yohji, and Chloé too for that matter, alone, huh?

“Mmm… So I have seen,” Yuushi responds, glancing out at the rain and shaking his head. “It really is most horrid out here,” he continues, changing the topic almost as though he’d read my mind, “which, in turn, makes me have to ask you what exactly it is you are doing out here in the cold when you could be far warmer and far more comfortable inside.”

“I either retreated out here or I snapped and took Ken on,” I reply, relieved to be moving away from talking about either Chloé or Yohji, but at the same time knowing better than to relax and let my guard down around Yuushi. While lots of people read for entertainment, Yuushi, I know, is prone to reading psychiatry and psychology text books and, despite the fact he’s never confessed to this, I’m sure he has a sideline in attempting to put what he’s learned into practice. “Didn’t you hear the sound of his damn ball hitting the kitchen wall?” I add, scowling. “Christ. That combined with the racket Michel and Naru were making in the kitchen was just enough to get the better of me and I decided freezing my ass off was the lesser of two evils.”

“You could always have asked Naru and Michel to have been a little quieter,” Yuushi murmurs, smiling as he once again returns his full attention to me. “I am sure that you could have convinced them to oblige.”

“Why?” I mutter, leaning back in my seat and forcing myself to return Yuushi’s gaze. “Just because they happened to be pissing me off with the noise they were making while cooking doesn’t mean I had any real right to shut them up. Besides, it sounded as though they were amusing themselves and… And, well, it just would have been selfish of me to interfere, okay? Coming out here was simply easier.”

“There was a time when you would not have thought twice about impressing your will on others,” Yuushi replies mildly, the serene smile on his face telling me that, if he had one handy, he’d give me a gold star for having successfully learnt how to play nice with others. “I am impressed, Ran. Your change in character continues to surpass even my greatest hopes.”

Embarrassed, not to mention ever so vaguely miffed at Yuushi’s peculiar praise -- was I really *that* unpleasant to be around? -- I give a dismissive sniff and shrug. “Have they finished whatever it was they were making?” I query, making a decisive bid to once again move the conversation on. 

“They have finished, yes,” Yuushi responds, still smiling serenely. “The cookies have been baked and subsequently distributed and, if I am correct, they are now just cleaning up.”

“Good,” I retort. “With them out of the kitchen and Ken trying to kill himself on the obstacle course, at least things will be a lot quieter.”

“Assuming, of course, the snooker match between Masato and Yohji does not become even more heated, you will probably be right,” Yuushi replies. “While only a game, it has to be said that they both appear to be taking it quite seriously.”

“The urge for a nicotine fix will stop them before too long,” I mutter, looking up and rolling my eyes. “Oh well, at least they’re, arguably, I suppose, occupied and not annoying anyone else. Not that I particularly care or anything, but do you know who’s currently winning?”

“Just before I came outside it was drawn and in danger of becoming personal,” Yuushi murmurs with a shake of his head. “I trust, however, they are both sensible enough to call a stop before it becomes physical.”

“Well, hope, as they say, *does* spring eternal,” I reply drily, the idea of either of them backing down or accepting defeat gracefully not computing at all. “Given their combined attention spans, I’m sure they’ll tire of it soon anyway.”

“You are probably right,” Yuushi states, reaching across the small distance that separates us and brushing his fingers lightly across my knee. “What about you, Ran? While I know now your reasons for being outside I still do not know what exactly it is you are doing out here. If you wish to be alone then, please, just say the word and I will go. I do not wish to impose.”

Looking at Yuushi, I smile faintly and give another shrug. “You don’t have to go. I have, over the course of this year in particular, become… used… to company.”

“And there I was thinking for a second you were going to say… ‘appreciative’… of company,” Yuushi smiles, returning his hand to his lap. “Still, it is a start. A good one, at that.”

“More often than not I’m even… appreciative… of it,” I confess softly, lowering my gaze and staring down at my feet. “But… ah… What I was actually doing before you joined me was thinking about the part Nagi played in what happened at Cathedral…”

“And?” Yuushi prompts.

“And I don’t suppose there’s any chance you’re going to take him with you tomorrow, is there?” I mutter hopefully, looking up and gazing past Yuushi towards the house. “I don’t deny that he was of great assistance, and I am grateful for the help he gave us, but I will *never* trust him and I’d far prefer if it he had somewhere else to be. Does that answer your question?”

“Although somewhat brief, yes, it answers my question,” Yuushi replies. “In response to yours, while, yes, the idea had been put forward, no, Nagi will not be joining us. I say this with neither disrespect nor discrimination, but I just do not feel Crashers would be the ideal environment for someone with his… gifts.”

“Well, I’m telling you now, suitable environment or not, we don’t want him either,” I sigh, mentally bracing myself for a fight if anyone is stupid enough to so much as suggest it. “I don’t know if Omi’s forgiven him for his betrayal but, Goddamn it, he’s his pet and, as such, his problem.”

“Perhaps Rosary may take him,” Yuushi offers uncertainly. “I mean, it could be stated that they now have a vacancy in need of filling.”

“Which neatly brings everything back to what happened at Cathedral,” I murmur, closing my eyes and squirming in my chair in order to disguise the fact my entire body has just broken out in goosebumps. “God… To say we narrowly avoided being involved in a complete disaster doesn’t even really begin to cover it, does it?”

“Be it by the narrowest of margins or not, it was still avoided,” Yuushi replies matter-of-factly. “While on the subject of Cathedral though, I was wondering if you’d be willing to tell me your side of what happened. I will understand, of course, if you do not wish to, but I would nonetheless like to know so that my report can be as thorough as it possibly can.”

*My* side of things? What a… lovely… topic to contemplate.

“You’re not seriously telling me that you haven’t already written your report, are you?” I query with a dry, snorted laugh. “If so, that concussion must have *really* effected you in a bad way.”

“The initial report is already written,” Yuushi murmurs, the serious expression on his face telling me that my facetiousness went right over his head. “For the sake of detail however I would not be at all against the idea of going back and updating it. It is up to you, Ran. If you do not wish to discuss it then I happy for the report to remain as it currently is.”

“I…” Trailing off, I frown at Yuushi and try to manage a nonchalant shrug. “It’s not something I’ve ever felt any real desire to talk about,” I reply quietly, scrunching further back in my chair and pulling a face. “In fact, it’s not even something Yohji’s asked me about.”

“I can’t say that particular fact comes as any surprise to me at all,” Yuushi responds, watching me -- as though he’s trying to fill in the gaps with my body language -- closely. “To Yohji, all that matters is that you are alive and safe. The specifics, given that they are in the past and he knows the outcome, are of little or no interest to him.”

“You’re probably right,” I sigh, reluctantly accepting that if I *don’t* tell Yuushi what it is that he’s wanting to hear he’ll only read my silence as denial and that, really, appeals to me even less than talking about it does. “I… Okay. While I can think of a couple of hundred things I’d rather be doing, if you really want to know the full picture of what went down at Cathedral I *suppose* I can force myself to tell you.”

“That is what I was hoping you would say,” Yuushi smiles, leaning slightly forward and fixing me with his full attention. “Now, I know, having heard it from Ken, that you decided to follow Faith when he went after his brother, but what I would like to know is why. Although you are usually a stickler for sticking to plans, you willingly went against everything that had been decided and followed Faith, yes?”

“Er… No. Not exactly.” Thank you, Yuushi. No. Honestly. I mean, why would you possibly want to meander up to the hard questions when you can get them out of the way right at the very start? “It was… ah… Chloé… who followed Faith.”

“And you?” Yuushi questions, cocking his head to one side and peering at me as though, literally, he was conducting an interview. “You followed Chloé?” 

Sighing, I nod. “Yes. I followed Chloé.”

“Mmm?”

Ha! So now he decides to play it coyly. Great. Just great. Clearly agreeing to this wasn’t one of my better moves.

“Mmm… I followed Chloé because, despite it opening him up to memories he really didn’t need reminding of, he followed me to Tokyo,” I murmur, folding my arms across my chest and shrugging. “It seemed like the right thing to do. The others had their tasks already spelt out and, well, even then I didn’t trust Keegan and suspected that whatever it was that he was up to was likely to be bad.”

“Keegan led the three of you directly to Schuldig, yes?” Yuushi queries, apparently satisfied, for the time being at least, with my motives for why I did what I did. “That was his aim all along?”

Narrowing my eyes, I unfold my arms and start to pick at the lint on my coat. “Because of his ability to alter his appearance, we lost sight of Keegan until he was draped over Schuldig,” I mutter. “Not knowing the idea of good taste, they kissed like there was no tomorrow and… because, I think, we were so… taken aback… by this display, our guards were down and we were quickly surrounded by minions. There being too many people around to free ourselves without either risking them or making a scene, we allowed ourselves to be guided into the room next to the stage.”

“And Takeda? He was waiting in the room?”

“Yes. Along with Crawford and yet more minions,” I reply, hoping Yuushi doesn’t want to hear every single detail as, really, I want to keep this as brief as I possibly can. “Takeda ordered the minions to take Chloé and I down so, there being no other real choice, we started to fight. As with most of the Infinity goons we’d had the misfortune of meeting, they weren’t that coordinated and it didn’t take long for us to feel as though we had the upper hand. While we were fighting though, Keegan was trying to convince Faith how much Rosenkrus needed him and how returning to the fold was the best move he could possibly make. You should have heard him, actually. He sounded like an overzealous preacher. To hear him so eloquently go against everything his brother stands for, his brother who’d given up just about everything for him, was… disturbing.” 

“And Faith? How was he reacting?”

“Faith was just… He was in shock,” I murmur, placing my hands flat on my knees so that I have something to look at other than Yuushi. “You would have been too if your little brother was standing there blithely telling you that everything, effectively, had been about your capture. To keep him… passive… Crawford injected him with some sort of serum, but that wasn’t until the fight was nearing an end. Noticing what was happening, Chloé went to go to Faith’s aid and…” 

Trailing off, I clench my fingers into the fabric of my coat and shake my head. “I… I don’t quite know what happened then. Either a minion or Takeda, I didn’t really see, came out of nowhere and pushed me down the stairs. Caught off balance, I wasn’t able to steady myself on anything and went down hard. I may even have blacked out for a second, I’m not sure. What I can remember though is finding myself in a crumpled heap on the floor of the observation room. Winded, I tried to get to my feet but Takeda was there and, after pushing me back down, he stuck a needle in my neck and… that was it. Whether it was meant to take immediate effect or whether it reacted as quickly as it did because of the cold and flu drugs in my system, within seconds I… I was helpless. My mind still felt clear enough but I couldn’t feel my body at all. It… It was awful.”

“I can imagine,” Yuushi murmurs sympathetically, reaching out and placing his hand fleetingly over mine. “If this is too hard for you, Ran, you just have to…”

“Talking about it isn’t going to change what happened,” I interrupt, knowing, but keeping it to myself, that there’s simply no way Yuushi could even begin to imagine how horrific the experience was. Because the plastic surgeons had done such an incredible job on Takeda, as far as I was concerned it really was as though Kimura himself was standing over me. Even the gold nail on his little finger -- that he stroked down my cheek, causing me to unwittingly whimper -- was the same and…

And… Where was I?

“His confidence levels soaring,” I continue hoarsely, “Takeda was muttering something about going to make me pay for his brother’s death when Chloé came flying down the stairs. I don’t know if he’d… sensed… something but, suddenly, he was just there. Unable to move, I didn’t see the darts he threw, but I heard them and I also heard the sound they made as they hit Takeda. His aim impeccable even during times of stress, the darts hit Takeda’s jugular and, well, that was the end of him. Keegan then…”

Clutching my fingers even deeper into the folds of my coat, I release a deep breath and, before Yuushi can get in with his offer to let me off the hook, press on. “The little bastard didn’t hesitate or give Chloé any sort of chance to stand down, he just… he just shot him. Three times. He shot him three fucking times! And… And there was nothing I could do! He was even laughing as Chloé went down. Laughing…”

“Ran? It’s okay. You can stop now if…”

“There was blood everywhere,” I continue, ignoring Yuushi’s entreaty to stop as, suddenly, I just want it, the horror, out. “Chloé’s was mingling with Takeda’s and I felt as though I was in the middle of it, that I was going to drown in it. And… oh God… Chloé, he… his breathing was more of a wheezy-pant, you know, like a death rattle. It was clear that he was dying and… and all I could fucking do was lie there! When Schuldig strutted down the stairs Keegan ran over to him like an over-eager dog in search of praise from his master. It was just sickening. Like Keegan, Schuldig found the scene to be amusing and they were both laughing like hyenas when, propelling Faith along in front of him, Crawford came down the stairs. Because I couldn’t move, I thought I was imagining things when my katana, that I still had in my hand, started to vibrate. It then, with a force that I can’t even begin to describe, pulled away from me and flew through the air towards Keegan. He was still laughing as it went through his chest. So was Schuldig. I think it was then that the first explosion rocked Cathedral and, as Keegan fell down dead at Schuldig’s feet, Schuldig murmured something about Herr Gessner’s serum clearly having failed on Faith. They then bickered, Schuldig and Crawford, about whether Crawford had seen this coming or not and then, as more explosions went off overhead, they just turned around, airily declared that this wasn’t going to be the end of it, not by any means, and left. I… I waited for Faith to go over to Chloé, but he didn’t move and I was trying frantically to think of a way I could somehow get over to him when everything went black.”

Unclenching my fingers, I look across at Yuushi and smile wanly. “My next coherent memory is waking up next to Yohji here at Souzou,” I finish with a shrug. “So there, there you have it.”

“Thank you,” Yuushi replies, glancing out over the lawn and watching as Ken, who’s now covered in mud and looks very much like a rat that’s been pulled out of the sewers, runs towards the house. “I know how hard it must have been for you, Ran, and, again, thank you for telling me.”

“Hard or not,” I mutter, watching Ken open the back door and, without so much as a token wipe of his feet on the mat, disappear into the kitchen, “it doesn’t help Faith. Chloé, through luck and good timing, is going to be okay, but what’s going to happen with Faith? I know Keegan’s betrayal was one hell of a crushing shock, but…”

“Oh! Forgive me, I knew there was another reason I came out here looking for you,” Yuushi interrupts, shaking his head and placing his hand over his mouth in a dismayed, apologetic gesture. “You don’t have to worry about Faith any more as he’s moved.”

“Moved?” I echo, looking back at Yuushi and raising my eyebrow questioningly. “Moved as in lifted his arm, or moved as in he’s actually unglued his ass from that chair he’s been residing in and stood up? Last time I saw him he was in the exact same position he’s been in *every* time I’ve seen him and Jin was staring at him as though he was the Delphi Oracle or something.”

“Moved as in gotten up out of his chair,” Yuushi confirms. “After Michel had finished his little speech, Faith stood up, apologized to Jin and Finlay for his behavior, reassured them that he was fine, and started to walk…”

“Shit!” I swear, jumping up and, not at all pleased with the idea that’s just jumped uninvited into my head and hoping that I’m wrong, beginning to walk towards the stairs. “He didn’t immediately head for Chloé, did he? I know he’d be wanting to apologize for Keegan but Chloé’s too weak to be stressed and I don’t think he’s ready for Faith’s guilt trip or that…”

“Ran!” Yuushi snaps, injecting as much authority into my birth name as I can remember him doing -- during our numerous and long running arguments -- from years past. “Sit down and, please, for God’s sake, get a grip,” he continues, reaching out and, as I stare at him dumbfounded, grabbing a hold of my arm. “If you go inside all riled up like that it’s going to be you and not Faith who’ll be stressing Chloé out. Now, sit!”

“But…”

“Sit!”

Shaking off Yuushi’s hand, I give a petulant huff under my breath and stalk back to my chair. “As commanding as your dictatorial display was just then,” I mutter sarcastically, sitting down and glaring at Yuushi, “it still didn’t answer my question as to where Faith dragged himself off to.”

“If you must know it was to the bathroom,” Yuushi murmurs, smiling another one of his serene smiles at me. “While I can not guarantee it, I assume he wished to shower.”

“I don’t want him stressing Chloé,” I state flatly, looking away from Yuushi and frowning at the house. “I know… what they mean to each other, but he’s just not ready for it.”

“And to get to Chloé Faith would have to break free of his two nurses, Jin and Finlay, first,” Yuushi replies calmly. “Relax, Ran. Once he is out of the shower Dr Miyazaki will need to give him a once over, and then he’ll have to have something to eat, not to mention the fact that he’d also have to get past Free…”

“Maybe,” I sigh, drumming my fingers on my knees and, no longer wanting to be outside and away from the others, quite literally twitching with impatience. “I’m not convinced, and if you’re wrong I’ll make sure you know about it, but, okay, whatever. I’m sitting and I’m listening.”

“Not very happily either, if your body language is anything to go by,” Yuushi responds drily. “Now, if you can put aside your self-imposed guard duty for a moment, aren’t you the least bit curious as to how Michel was able to get through to Faith?”

“Not really,” I mutter, putting on a performance of shrugging even though I do actually want to know. “But I’m sure you’re going to tell me anyway.”

“It was while he and Naru were dispensing their cookies,” Yuushi replies, his smile broadening as he realizes that, despite my best attempts to indicate to the contrary, he’s hooked my attention. “I was talking with Jin when they came into Rosary’s rooms and Michel, once the cookies had been handed out, to everyone’s surprise, stood in front of Faith and started chattering away at him. At first it was just random small talk. He went on about the baking process, the snooker game between Masato and Yohji, the weather… When this had no effect, and I’m not sure whether he expected it to or not, he placed his hand on Faith’s shoulder and murmured something about how, seeing as he was meant to be Chloé’s friend, he thought Faith should have made the effort to have seen him by now.”

“Oh God… He didn’t?” I groan, the concept of so much as *contemplating* what must have been going through Michel’s mind at the time not striking me as good one. “He… Little fool! We’d told him to stay away from Faith but clearly we could have saved our breath.”

“Why?” Yuushi queries softly. “With one, I do believe, genuine comment, he achieved what no one else had been able to. Something in what Michel said got through to Faith as his reaction was all but immediate. I think it is quite remarkable, myself.”

“So long as he waits for Chloé to be better before dumping his guilt trip on him,” I mutter, my -- regardless of whether it’s logical or not -- concern for Chloé making me almost unable to feel the relief I know I should be feeling about Faith having returned to life. “But… ah… yeah. It is, I suppose, quite remarkable. Who’d have known Michel had such a way with words…”

“Michel is certainly… interesting,” Yuushi murmurs, still smiling at me -- worryingly -- happily. “As are the other members of Krypton Brand. Chloé though… Twice now, in the space of less than thirty minutes, you’ve expressed considerable concern about his well being. First when I walked across the lawn and just then, when I mentioned that Faith had moved. Am I correct in thinking you are particularly close to him?”

It took a while but, having gotten all the mission related subjects out of the way, here it is, the topic that’s probably been eating at Yuushi ever since I ran into him while fleeing from the hospital wing.

“He’s a team mate,” I mumble, idly wondering what it would take to steer Yuushi back in the direction of all things Cathedral, Schwarz and Infinity related. While not my favorite things to talk about, at least I have answers where they’re concerned. Easy answers at that.

“Just a team mate?” Yuushi murmurs. “Forgive me. I just thought that you had to be closer than that.”

“He’s a… friend,” I reply, scowling at Yuushi even though I know it’s not going to make the slightest bit of impact on him. “I count the entire team as friends. Free, Yuki, Michel, *Chloé*… They’re all friends.”

“Oh.”

Just, ‘oh’. That’s all he says. ‘Oh’. 

And, somehow, I’m left feeling as though I need to confess everything to him.

Damn psychology books!

“If it’s okay with you, he’s my friend and I care about him,” I mutter, standing up and going over to stand near the steps. “And, just to save you from having to think up a few more questions in order to ease me up to the big one, yes, I do. I shouldn’t, and it’s as messy as it is confusing, but I do. He… He understands me in ways that I hope and pray Yohji never can.”

… There. You’ve got it out of me now, please, leave me alone.

“Thank you,” Yuushi replies plainly, walking over to join me by the steps. “With that answer you’ve actually covered two of my questions. Whether I am correct or not, I now believe I know the reason behind the worried expression you were wearing before you came to greet me at the steps of the gazebo.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I reply, a defensive tone once again entering my voice as I glance at Yuushi. “If I looked worried at all it would have been because I was thinking about Nagi.”

“Possibly,” Yuushi responds, picking his umbrella up and rolling it between his hands. “I do not think so, however. Finding yourself in a position where you feel as though you have to choose, that it’s unfair or untenable to leave things as they currently are, you feel torn.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I repeat, staring at Yuushi with what I can only hope is carefully masked astonishment. How? Just… *how*… huh? It’s not even a thought I’ve been willing to admit to myself yet he was somehow able to read it in me? “Those psych books you read might be good, but they’re not that good.”

“You can pretend not to know what I am talking about,” Yuushi replies, “but I know that you do. The reasons may be varied, but you have two men in your life who care as much about you as you do for them. Because of this, you feel as though you are obliged to choose.”

“You’re talking nonsense,” I mutter, snatching the umbrella away from Yuushi and, stepping out into the rain, opening it up. “Now, do you wish to come inside with me or would you rather remain with your delusions in the gazebo?”

“Deny it if you wish,” Yuushi murmurs, following me down the steps and, as we step out onto the lawn, taking the umbrella out of my hand. “There is one last thing I wish to say to you, Ran, and I want you to promise me that you will heed it. You may not understand it at first, but I would not ask this of you if I did not believe it to be of paramount importance.”

“Hit me with it then,” I reply, coming to an abrupt stop as, without warning, Yuushi positions himself in front of me and, balancing the umbrella on his shoulder, places both hands on my shoulders. “Uh… I meant that figuratively, by the way,” I add, taken aback by the intensity in Yuushi’s gaze.

“You only have two choices,” Yuushi states, his fingers digging into my shoulders as, effectively holding me in place, he blocks my path to the house. “You may think you have three, but I am telling you now that the third is not an option you can consider.”

“Now I *really* have no idea what you’re talking about,” I reply, perplexed as to what exactly Yuushi thinks he’s getting at. “Two choices? Three choices? I’m sorry, but… *huh*?”

“Accept, with minor modification if need be, and embrace the status quo, that’s your first option,” Yuushi replies, his fingers still wrapped around my shoulders. “The second is make a choice, one or the other. Those, however, are your only options. The third, and if you haven’t already thought of it I can tell you now that you will, is not to be contemplated. Promise me, Ran. Promise me that you won’t let all your hard work unravel by choosing number three.”

“Um… Whatever,” I murmur, looking, I’m sure of it, at Yuushi as though he’s just confessed to harboring a desire to dress up as Donald Duck. I mean, what the hell is the third option anyway? And why can’t I consider it? “Given that I don’t believe in making promises, I’ll do my best not to disappoint you… How’s that?”

“About as good as I could hope for,” Yuushi sighs, releasing my shoulders and, returning the umbrella to his hand, moving to stand alongside of me. “It is neither any of my business nor my place to be saying this to you, Ran, which is why I sound as though I’m being vague, but I believe, in time, you will come to understand what it is I’m trying to impress on you.”

“Here’s to hoping,” I reply, walking in step with Yuushi towards the front door. “If it… ah… does come to me, do you want me to let you know?”

“I will know whether you inform me or not,” Yuushi responds with an ever so slightly smug tone as he opens the door and gestures me inside. “Your current… environment… suits you, Ran, and I would hate to see you do anything to jeopardize it.”

“Anyone told you recently that you’re, well, odd?” I query blithely as, leaving the umbrella on the doormat, Yuushi follows me into the house. “I am, in case you’ve forgotten, perfectly capable of looking after myself.”

“That, my friend, is a matter of opinion,” Yuushi retorts, taking off his coat and hanging it on the coat rack.

Giving a mock snort to indicate that I don’t think he’s at all amusing, I take my coat off and am hanging it next to his when his mobile phone starts to ring. Frowning, Yuushi retrieves it from his pocket and glances at the screen. “Damn, I have to take this,” he mutters, pressing a button to put the call on hold and smiling across at me. “Regardless of whether you feel the same way or not, I have enjoyed both our discussion and the time we have spent here at Souzou,” he murmurs. “If your invitation to visit England extends to all of us, I would like, some day, to take you up on it.”

“Of course it extends to the others as well,” I reply, quickly deciding that should it ever eventuate that Crashers *do* come to England, that moving everyone up to the castle for the duration of their visit would probably be a wise move. While our house in London comfortably fits seven, I’m not too sure the same could be said about eleven and nor do I really want to find out either. “And, Yuushi… perhaps this time we could… keep in touch?” 

“I would like that,” Yuushi smiles. “I would like that a lot, actually. Now, if you’ll excuse me though, I really need to take this call.”

“Consider me gone,” I murmur, lightly trailing my fingers down his arm by way of goodbye as, turning around, I start to walk towards the living room. Not particularly wanting to run the risk of having to play the role of bored spectator to Yohji and Masato’s snooker game, I’m somewhat wary of going in search of Yohji and think, for the moment anyway, that going into the living room to warm up is probably as good as my immediate future is going to get. 

Despite the rest of Souzou’s renovations offending me in varying ways, I have to begrudgingly own up to liking the fireplace that’s been added to the living room. Not only does the constantly burning fire make the room lovely and warm but it also reminds me of the only Christmas we spent at Souzou and how Omi, in his search to create the perfect English Christmas, had a DVD of a crackling fire up on the television screen for most of the day. I suspect, not that he’s said as much, he had the fireplace installed so he too could keep the memory alive and I have to admit that, yes, it *is* a nice touch.

A fresh wave of sadness washing over me at how the Omi of three Christmases ago bears incredibly little resemblance to the Omi of today, I open the door and walk into the living room. Intent on making a beeline to the fireplace, I don’t even realize that I’m not alone in the room until I’m walking behind the sofa and notice, with no small degree of surprise, that’s Free’s sitting there reading a book. I then, as I look down over the sofa, see that Chloé is sitting next to him and, the fire forgotten about, come to a sudden stop. 

Dressed in pajamas and his rose adorned, black velvet robe, Chloé leans up against Free’s side, his legs curled along the length of the sofa. His head resting on Free’s shoulder and with one hand curled around Free’s arm, he looks to be sound asleep and, delighted to see him -- even if he should really still be in it -- out of his hospital bed, I can’t help but smile.

“Wimp,” I comment, giving Free’s shoulder a gentle prod as I continue around to the fireplace. “Did his whining get too much for you?”

“Dr Miyazaki said that it would be all right for him to spend an hour or so in the living room,” Free responds, slowly and carefully -- so as not to wake Chloé -- placing his bookmark between the pages of his book and glancing over at me. “If the doctor had not given the go ahead then no amount of whining, however plaintive or creative, would have convinced me to move him.”

“And this is how he celebrates his victory?” I murmur, smiling as I warm my back against the fire. “By promptly falling asleep? Tsk… What a waste.”

“While he does not think so, he is still very weak,” Free replies softly, placing his book on the arm of the sofa and gesturing me over. “Not wanting, if it can be helped, to wake him, would you mind, Aya, taking my place? I… have cause to want to move.”

“I don’t mind at all,” I respond, walking over to the sofa and waiting as Free gingerly extricates himself from Chloé’s weight. Once he’s standing, his hands gently holding Chloé up, I slip under his arms and sit down against the arm of the sofa.

“Thank you,” Free murmurs, pulling his hands away from Chloé in order to allow him to resettle. Given that I’m shorter and… less broad… than Free is, I don’t move until, with a contented sigh, Chloé wraps his hand around my arm and relaxes against me. “If he wakes he will be pleased to do so next to you,” he continues, watching Chloé for a moment before beginning to make his way over to the door.

“Hey, Free,” I call out, my fingers unconsciously reaching for and stroking the soft velvet of Chloé’s cuff, “has Faith been to see him yet?”

“Apart from looking in on him while he was still sleeping in his room, no, he has not,” Free replies, opening the door and glancing over his shoulder at me. “Do not worry about Faith, Aya. Despite their past, he is only a threat if you allow him to be.”

Saved from having to ask Free whether he’s been taking the same cryptic pills as Yuushi by him walking out of the room, I shake my head slowly and sigh. “Seeing as there’s clearly something in the water here that makes people act just that little bit stranger than normal,” I whisper, resting my head against Chloé’s and staring across at the flickering fire, “I think I’m becoming envious of all the time you’re spending sleeping.”

“You talking to yourself again?” Yohji interjects from the doorway, the expression of bemusement on his face telling me, as I jerk my head up to glance at him, that, just as I didn’t when I first entered the room, he can’t see Chloé and that, as far as he’s concerned, I definitely look as though I’m talking to myself. “Actually, I’ve got a bone to pick with you,” he continues, walking into the room. “Why didn’t you tell me that Masato’s a freakin’ snooker pro, huh? Not only did he successfully clear out the contents of my wallet, but I’ve also got a… scary… I.O.U. in my pocket for the next time I’m near an ATM. Christ! Can that guy play or…”

Trailing off as he spots Chloé, Yohji clamps his hand over his mouth and stares at me in a way that’s as comical as it is accusing. “Why didn’t you tell me Chloé was asleep instead of letting me rave on?” he queries in an almost theatrical whisper, shaking his head. “I could have woken him.”

“I think it would take more than you blithering on to wake him at the moment,” I reply, watching as Yohji leans over the back of the sofa and very gently strokes Chloé’s hair.

“I…” Nodding, Yohji continues to stroke Chloé’s hair for a couple of seconds before standing back and sighing. “I still can’t get over how close we came to losing him,” he murmurs faintly. “Aya… When I think…”

“We didn’t lose him,” I interrupt, wondering who Yohji is actually referring to -- the two of us, or the whole of Krypton Brand? -- with his use of ‘we’ but not particularly wanting to come out and ask him. “So don’t think about it. Don’t think about that bastard, Keegan, just… Just don’t think about any of it. He’s alive and he’s here. That’s the most important thing.”

Nodding again, Yohji flashes a weak smile at me and, walking around the sofa, sits down on the carpet. Resting his back against the arm of the sofa and leaning up against my leg, he looks up at Chloé, his smile broadening. “Seeing him in that goth-as-hell robe reminds me that I haven’t called him Lestat for a while,” he comments with a laugh. “Perhaps when he’s a little better and capable of biting back, it’s a habit I should bring back into practice…”

“I’m sure he’d love it,” I murmur, giving Yohji’s thigh a gentle, warning nudge with my foot. “Honestly. I don’t know where he’d be without such a charming and considerate friend.”

“Sometimes I don’t know where… we’d… be either,” Yohji replies sagely, shrugging as, making himself comfortable, he rests his arm on my lap. “Aya… Do you think we should talk about…”

“Shhh…” I interrupt, quickly shaking my head. “After having just spent the last forty or so minutes with Yuushi, I’m talked out and would really much prefer to simply sit here quietly.”

“It can wait then,” Yohji whispers, glancing across at the door as Free, with Tantomile slinking along behind him, returns to the room. Veering away from Free as he walks over to retrieve his book from the arm of the sofa, Tantomile, her tail switching from side to side with indecision, comes to a stop by the leg of the coffee-table as she stares up at Chloé as though she doesn’t quite know whether he’s up to being jumped on or not.

Picking his book up, Free looks down at Yohji for a moment before calmly turning his attention to me. “You do not wish to swap places?” he queries as, her mind made up, Tantomile jumps neatly onto the arm of the sofa.

“Given that it would cause too much disruption, no,” I reply, giving Yohji’s thigh another knock with my foot as his head joins his arm on my lap. “I’m, as you can see, incredibly comfortable.”

“*That*, I could tell,” Free murmurs, smiling benignly as he sits down in the armchair by the fireplace. “In fact, the same could be said for the three of you.”

“Despite having incredibly bony knees, he actually makes a really good pillow,” Yohji smirks, his eyes twinkling as he looks up at me. “If you want you could come over and lean on his other leg. You know, just so you could see for yourself.”

“Thank you for the kind offer but, having just sat down, I have to respectfully decline,” Free replies, opening his book up and settling back to read. “Perhaps another time.”

“If you’ve had enough of offering my services out as a pillow,” I mutter, tangling my fingers in Yohji’s hair and gently tugging on it, “how about shutting your mouth and letting Free read in peace, huh?”

“If I have to,” Yohji smiles, tilting his head back and making a deep purring sound in the back of his throat. “Ooh… More, more.”

Her curiosity piqued by the noise Yohji is making, Tantomile stares at him intently for a couple of moments before yawning daintily and climbing up on to the back of the sofa. She then meanders along it until she’s in line with Chloé’s shoulder and, with a concerned sounding chirrup, leans forward in order to give his cheek a quick lick and a gentle head butt. This done, she yawns again and spreads out along the back of the sofa, the sprawl of her body mirroring Chloé’s.

“Aw, how cute,” Yohji grins. “She looked as though she was reassuring herself that he’s still alive.”

“Mmm… And then she celebrated by giving him a Koi flavored kiss,” I mutter, my fingers still tangled in Yohji’s hair. “How… positively… generous of her.”

“You only say that out of jealousy,” Yohji retorts, giving me an indignant look as I… accidentally… tug a little too tightly on his hair. “You did that on purpose!”

“Prove it,” I murmur sweetly, pulling my hand back and raising my finger to my mouth in a shhhing gesture. “Wake Chloé with your whinging though and by the time I’ve finished you won’t have any hair left.”

“Bully,” Yohji mutters, resettling himself even closer to my leg and smiling. “Not, incidentally, that I’m afraid of you. You’re all noise.”

Shaking my head, I bring my finger to my lips again and mock frown. “Shhh!”

Poking his tongue out, Yohji closes his eyes and sighs. “If it’s too quiet I’ll probably fall asleep.”

“You say that like it would be a bad thing,” I whisper, returning my hand to the back of Yohji’s head and entwining my fingers in his hair. “Now, shut up!”

Something I said finally having the desired effect, Yohji falls silent and for a good ten minutes I’m able to revel in both the peace and quiet and the incredibly comfortable position I happen to have found myself in. Quite literally dead to the world, Chloé sleeps on, his hand curled around my arm and his head resting on my shoulder. Over the sound of the rain hitting the roof and Free turning the pages of his book, I can hear him breathing and can’t help but be taken back to Yohji’s comment about how close we came to losing him.

Accept the status quo. Pick one or the other. The third option though, choose that and you’re effectively signing the deed for your own tombstone… Regardless of his odd statement clearly making perfect sense to him, I have no idea what Yuushi means by dismissing the so-called third option outright and wish he’d been a little more specific. The first two, despite it not being something I ever really wanted to discuss with him, I get, but not the third.

Christ! It’s all just too hard. All I know for certain is that sitting here, with both Yohji and Chloé leaning against me, I’m… 

I’m… happy.

And… 

… at peace.

“Look at you, Aya, you look as though you’re about to start purring,” Ken comments walking, slowly and without any of his usual vigor, into the room and coming to a stop at the end of the sofa. His hair damp and his skin flushed pink, it’s obvious he’s fresh from a shower and I’m pleased to see that he hasn’t carried his current self-destructive mood over into keeping his rain-drenched clothes on. “Oh. And now I can see why,” he adds, frowning at Chloé for a second before reaching down and carefully ensuring that his robe is fully tucked in around his feet. “Is it okay for him to be up?”

“According to Free it has Dr Miyazaki’s seal of approval, so yes,” I reply as, his oddly touching attempt at mothering out of the way, Ken sinks down on the floor and, stretching his legs out in front of him, rests his back against the arm of the sofa.

“Good. Because the sooner he’s better and we get out of this hole the better,” Ken mutters, leaning his head further back against the arm and staring up at the ceiling. “Have you heard the latest?”

“Yuushi told me,” I murmur, glancing at Yohji and, with a quick shake of my head, mouthing the word ‘later’ at him. “I… I’m sorry.”

“Yeah. Me too,” Ken whispers sadly, gently banging the back of his head against the arm of the sofa. “Shit happens though, huh?”

“Perhaps… it is for the best?” I offer hesitantly, looking towards the door as, clearly the living room being the one and only place to be, Yuki steps into the room. His attention focused, as always, on a world made up of pixels and bytes, his expression, when he glances up from his Gameboy and finds that he’s not alone, is nothing short of astonished. Quickly turning the electronic game off, he pulls the headphones connected to the iPod in his pocket out of his ears and, with a weak, embarrassed smile, goes over to sit on the other sofa.

“Perhaps it is,” Ken replies quietly, watching Yuki place his Gameboy and iPod on the coffee table before once again leaning his head against the sofa. “Perhaps it just is…”

“What is for the best?” Michel queries brightly from the doorway, his expression of delight at finding the living room full in direct contrast to Yuki’s look of shock. In his arms he’s carrying Snowball, who, as he barrels through the room en route to the door that leads into the kitchen, he dumps unceremoniously on Free’s lap. “Free?”

Lowering his book, Free gives Snowball a nonplussed look before glancing at Michel. “Change,” he replies. “Aya and Ken were just discussing how change is sometimes for the best.”

“Sometimes, but not always. I can think of some things that I would hate to see change,” Michel responds, smiling as he looks around the room, his curiosity sated. “I am going to the kitchen for a drink. Would anyone else like one?”

“I wouldn’t say no to a Coke,” Ken replies, the thought of a caffeine and sugar hit making him sit up a little straighter in anticipation. “Thanks.”

“My pleasure,” Michel grins, waiting for the rest of us to chorus our variations on ‘no, I’m currently fine, thank you’ before wandering into the kitchen.

“He’s right, you know,” Yohji murmurs, closing his hand around my -- bony -- knee. “Not everything always needs changing.”

“Mmm…” A better, more relevant response not forthcoming, I trail off and go back to combing my fingers through Yohji’s hair. While it’s -- showing what can probably be described as affection in a public, albeit a familiar one, environment -- not something I usually do, for some reason I just don’t seem able to stop myself at the moment. In fact, it’s something I’m even… enjoying… doing.

Returning to the room with a tall glass of milk and a can of Coke, Michel hands the cola to Ken before wandering over and seating himself on the sofa next to Yuki. “Has anyone seen Mystique recently,” he queries, a fleeting frown crossing his face as he gestures across at Tantomile. “I do hope that she isn’t menacing poor Chanceaux again,” he adds, referring to how, miffed at the perceived competition, Mystique, upon arrival at Souzou, made short work of chasing the kitten out of Chloé’s room.

“Chanceaux, I believe, is being admirably protected by Nagi,” Free responds, lowering his book again and looking pointedly across at Chloé. “As for Mystique, she, like Tantomile, is on the sofa.”

“Where?” Ken mutters, putting his Coke down on the carpet and swiveling around to look at the sofa. “I can’t see her.”

“Neither can I,” Yohji states, lifting his head and sharing a questioning look with Ken. “Aya? What have you done with Mystique?”

“I haven’t done anything with her,” I reply, craning my neck slightly to see if she’s squashed in the space between the corner of the sofa and the back of Chloé’s legs. “Free? Are you certain she’s…”

“I think I know where she is!” Ken interrupts, lifting his hand and tentatively touching the sofa cushion near the curve of Chloé’s thighs. “I… I’m just too wary of her to prove it though…”

“Been called a wimp lately?” Yohji laughs, crawling around my feet and gingerly lifting up the hem of Chloé’s robe. “I mean, scared of a… Oi!” Dropping the robe hurriedly, Yohji shifts back from the sofa as, complete with extended claws, a spotty paw reaches out from under the folds of black velvet and stretches along the cushion.

“Now who’s a wimp, huh?” Ken retorts, laughing with what I think sounds like genuine amusement. “God. Good one.”

“Not good, *great*!” Michel interjects, precariously balancing his milk on his knee and clapping his hands together. “Look! We’re all back together again and I think it’s great.”

“Mmm… Michel’s right, it’s great,” Chloé murmurs, blinking at me sleepily as, her hidey-hole having been discovered, Mystique squirms out from beneath the robe and, using Chloé’s hip as a launching pad, jumps up to join Tantomile on the back of the sofa. “It’s how it… should be…” he continues, stifling a yawn. “Yohji? Aya? You agree, don’t you?”

“You’ll get no argument from me there,” Yohji replies, smiling as he resettles himself against my leg. “Aya?”

“No,” I smile, the answer, for a pleasant change, coming to me easily. As Michel said, we’re all here.

“No. No argument whatsoever.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Hearing someone -- daring to interrupt my solitude -- entering the kitchen, I don’t look up from the newspaper spread on the table before me and make a concentrated effort to feign fascination in…

Shit.

Great. Just fucking wonderful. As if today wasn’t already annoying me enough, I’ve just spent the last forty minutes staring blankly at the comics page like some sort of… halfwit...

Peeved at myself, I continue to ignore the newcomer and studiously shift through the sections of the paper until I come to the bit containing the crossword. I then, as a noise that sounds suspiciously like the door being locked reaches my ears, push my glasses up along the bridge of my nose and grope around the table for a pen.

“Aya?”

Yohji. And he sounds serious. How fantastic. Just when I thought my day -- *week* -- couldn’t get any worse.

Still, I don’t know what I really expected. Three days of avoiding the issue was better than nothing, I suppose.

“Please tell me you didn’t just lock the kitchen door,” I mutter, picking up the pen and giving Yohji a cursory glance as he hovers by the edge of the table.

“I could tell you that I didn’t lock it,” Yohji replies quietly, taking a seat at the foot of the table, “but I’d only be lying.”

“Oh.” Why is it that I suddenly think I’m not going to get a lot of the crossword done? “Excuse me for asking the obvious here, but *why* did you lock the door?”

“I would have thought it would have been obvious,” Yohji murmurs, reaching his hand across the table but stopping short of actually trailing his fingers along my arm.

“Obvious?” I echo, putting the pen down and -- because it’s easier and far more in character than screaming -- giving Yohji a cool look. “If you’re wanting to keep me here I’m afraid it’s going to take more than a locked door to stop me from upping and leaving.”

“It’s as much to keep the others out as it is to keep you here,” Yohji replies, retracting his hand and, without any hint of warning, slamming both palms down hard on the tabletop. “For Christ’s sake, Aya! You can’t keep this up!” he declares, the emotion he’s so clearly feeling coming through both in the tone and volume of his voice and his wide-eyed, agitated expression.

Taking my glasses off, I place them on top of the paper and turn to face Yohji. “Can’t keep *what* up?” I query flatly, making a point of fixing him with my undivided attention. “Remember, Yohji, just because you know what you’re talking about doesn’t necessarily mean anyone else does.”

Returning my gaze unwaveringly, Yohji scowls at me and shakes his head. “Don’t play this game with me, Aya,” he mutters. “I know I’m half to blame for having let you off for so long, but it’s reached the point now where it simply can’t be avoided any longer. We… We have to talk about it whether you want to or not.”

Like hell we do.

“If it’s the issue of children again,” I murmur sarcastically, picking the pen back up and twirling it between my fingers, “I thought we’d decided, what with the fact that we’re both men, that…”

“Aya!” Yohji barks, snatching the pen out of my hand and throwing it forcefully across the room so that it lands, with a loud clatter, in the sink. “Again, I’ve let you off these past few days but, no more. Contrary to what might be your opinion on the subject, there’s more than just your own life at stake here and, Goddamn it, I won’t be fobbed off again!”

Vaguely alarmed by Yohji’s mood and behavior -- but not wanting to show it -- I shrug nonchalantly and, in a move Ken would be proud of, fold my hands primly on the table. “Better?”

“If you weren’t so busily pretending that everything was fine you’d know that you were acting like a child,” Yohji responds sourly, getting up and, running his fingers through his hair, beginning to pace the distance from the foot of the table to the refrigerator. “I just came from talking to Finlay,” he continues, glancing at me warningly as -- though daring me to interrupt -- he paces backwards and forwards. “Did you know that Rosary are looking to leave tomorrow?”

Tomorrow?

“I…” Damn. “No. I didn’t know that,” I mutter, hiding my surprise behind another shrug. “It was bound to happen sometime though so, really, I don’t know what’s got you so worked up about it. Surely you knew all along that, sooner rather than later, they’d be returning to Paris.”

Giving me a dark look, Yohji comes to a stop at the end of the table and jams his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “When I walked past Chloé’s room I saw that he was packing too,” he states dully, his anger and agitation of only a moment ago draining away as he locks his eyes on mine. “Did you hear that, Mr Head In The Sand? Unless I’ve got my wires crossed it seems as though Chloé’s going back with them.”

So he’s decided then...

“Oh,” I murmur noncommittally, the tension I’ve been feeling over the past four days rising up and threatening to swallow me whole. “I expected as much…”

“You… expected as *much*?” Yohji repeats incredulously. “How can you just sit there calmly and say something as… bland… as that? It’s not… Omi… we’re talking about here but *Chloé*! You know, Aya, the blond you’ve spent the better part of the past three days constantly looking around for because you *expected* him to be there and then looked narked when he wasn’t.”

“I know who Chloé is,” I grind out, glowering at Yohji and clutching my fingers into the newspaper, “and you’re… hallucinating if you think I’ve been looking around for him! God, Yohji, what’s your problem, huh? If Chloé’s made the decision to rejoin Rosary then good on him. They are, after all, his original team. Not to mention Faith’s his…”

“I don’t care what Faith is to him as… as Goddamn it, Aya, I don’t want him to go!” Yohji exclaims, cutting me off and giving the table leg a weak, token kick before sinking back down in the chair. “I’m sorry if it’s selfish of me, but I don’t. I want him to stay with us and I also want you to admit that it’s what you want too. Come on… Talk to me. You can’t just sit there and say that you’re perfectly okay with Chloé rejoining Rosary and leaving us…”

“I want Chloé to do whatever will make him the happiest,” I murmur, unable to meet Yohji’s gaze and toying aimlessly with my glasses. “I know you don’t want him to go and, okay, I’ll be honest with you here and say that it’s not what I want either, but you’ve got to take what Chloé wants into consideration. The only reason he left Rosary in the first place was because of Keegan and now… now that that bastard’s gone there’s nothing to stop him from rejoining them…” Trailing off, I keep my head lowered and wish that my excuses didn’t sound, even to my own ears, so hollow and emotionless. “You haven’t seen Chloé and Faith’s past like I have, Yohji. If you had… you’d understand…”

“I don’t care,” Yohji whispers, giving me a beseeching look as I make the mistake of glancing across at him. “Chloé… He… He means a lot to me and I don’t want to lose him. I want him to be happy, sure, but I want him to be happy with us, not in Paris. Aya… Surely… Surely you feel the same way?”

Oh God… I knew there was a reason I’d been throwing everything I had into avoiding -- thinking about this very matter -- this conversation.

Too hard.

It’s all just too fucking hard.

“Going to live in Paris with Rosary wouldn’t be losing him,” I reply lamely, hating both how close to tears Yohji looks and how… empty… I feel. “We’ll still be able to talk to and email him and there will be nothing to stop us from seeing each other. It’s… It’s not the end of the world, Yohji, and if it’s what Chloé wants then it’s not our place to interfere. He deserves the right to be happy.”

“Some might say he also deserves the right to know how much he means to… us,” Yohji murmurs flatly, leaning back in his chair. “Don’t try and deny it, Aya. You’ve been avoiding him and it wouldn’t surprise me if…”

Damn Yohji for being so perceptive and, fuck it, while I’m at it damn Chloé for making himself -- without me even being really aware of it -- an integral part of my life!

“I haven’t been avoiding him,” I interrupt with a dismissive snort, hoping -- yet again -- that Yohji dutifully buys the bullshit I’m trying to feed him and just… leaves me alone. “In case you’ve already forgotten we’ve spent the majority of the past three days doing the Godforsaken tourist thing in Tokyo and how that translates into avoiding Chloé, who’s only just been allowed to walk out to the gazebo, escapes me. Not to mention I can hardly barge in on him when he’s spending time with Faith, now, can I? You’re… You’re just wrong. Besides, I’m sure Chloé knows how we feel about him already…”

“Does he?” Yohji queries plainly, slumping further back in his chair and gazing at the ceiling. “While I don’t know about you, I know that *I* haven’t told him how much he just happens to mean to me, that I…” Pausing, Yohji gives a weary sigh and shrugs. “When I decided to come and find you I told myself that, to hell with keeping quiet any longer, I was going to lay all my cards on the table, so… here it is… I love him. Did you hear that, Aya? I’m not saying I love you any less, but that I love Chloé as well…”

Oh. Fuck. I knew it, but what I also now know is that there’s a difference between knowing something and hearing confirmation of it.

“Yohji… I…”

“If it’s come as a surprise or if I’ve hurt you, I’m sorry,” Yohji murmurs softly, reaching his hand across the table and, this time, curling his fingers around my wrist. “Upsetting you, Aya, was never my intention. In fact… Hell! To be honest with you it’s not as though *any* of it has exactly been intentional. Chloé though, there’s, I don’t know, just something about him.”

Placing my hand over Yohji’s, I nod. “He’s… special,” I agree faintly as, instinctively, Yohji’s fingers entwine with mine, “and please don’t worry about my feelings as I’m neither hurt nor surprised by your… declaration. I just wish I had an easy answer for you, one that could work for everyone, but, unfortunately, I don’t. There *is* no easy answer and, ultimately, we just have to accept Chloé’s decision and move on.”

“I never took you for a defeatist!” Yohji retorts, snatching his hand away from mine and giving me what I take to me disgusted look. “Like hell we just have to sit here and watch him go! Come on,” he continues agitatedly, standing up and making to grab my arm, “we’ll go to him now and, together, we’ll tell him that we don’t want him to go, that we want him to stay with us.”

So easy… When he says it like that it sounds so simple that I almost want to try it.

“No. We won’t,” I reply quietly, pulling my arm away from Yohji and giving a dull shake of my head. “Yohji, please, you need to listen to me. I know you’re upset and, whether you believe it or not, I feel exactly the same way as you do about this, but we have no right to try and impose what *we* want on Chloé.”

“Aya! Just what the fuck is the matter with you, huh?” Yohji exclaims, his expression one of disbelief as he stands by the edge of the table. “Come on, let’s…”

“No!” Pushing my chair back, I stand up and walk over to lean my back against the sink. “You’ve got to accept Chloé’s decision and just leave it,” I murmur as matter-of-factly as I can manage. “I mean, have you even thought about what it is you’re proposing? If, by some chance, you did manage to convince Chloé to stay, then what? What do you think is going to happen then?”

Logic never really being Yohji’s forte when it comes to emotion driven arguments, some of his fight visibly deserts him and he stares at me blankly. “What do you mean what happens then?” he mutters after a few moment’s weighted silence. “We… We all go home to London and life goes on as it has been…”

“With what, the three of us engaged in a happy little threesome?” I query, folding my arms across my chest in what I know is a defensive, protective gesture as I brace myself to finalize this issue once and for all. “If that’s what you’re thinking, it’s not right and I fail to see how it would be fair on any of us…”

“Why?” Yohji queries plainly, sinking back down in the chair and staring glumly at the tabletop. “Why wouldn’t it be fair? Maybe I’m wrong but I was of the opinion that things have been working just fine. I also thought, regardless of it not being something we’d ever spoken about, we were all happy. Perhaps you’ve got a different point of view, but -- and, believe me, I’ve thought about this in great detail -- things are close to perfect in my books. I always love spending time with Chloé and, you may think this sounds stupid but I don’t care, I take great comfort from knowing you’ve got someone else to fall back on. If… If you’ve got a different opinion then perhaps, just so I can try to see things from your side of the fence, you’d better tell me what it is.”

That’s another reason I didn’t want to be having this conversation. Without even trying, Yohji can -- and always has been able to --twist and destroy all my carefully thought out logic and make me doubt my own feelings.

Although I’ve only just admitted it to myself and don’t know if I’ll ever be able to admit it out loud, what I want just happens to be exactly what Yohji wants. Unlike Yohji’s take on the matter though, I don’t find anything simple about it at all. While, granted, it’s too late to do anything about it, it would be a blatant lie to say I *wanted* to have such strong feelings for two men. Let’s face it, it’s not like I haven’t had enough trouble with dealing with *one* and, while I’m at it, this is hardly the kind of situation I ever foresaw myself stumbling into.

Again though, it’s too late. The gate’s shut. The horse has bolted. And I’m feeling as though I’m being pulled in two directions simultaneously.

For whatever the reasons might be, I love both of them -- Yohji *and* Chloé -- and they both mean the world to me. I *know* it’s weak and that I’m asking, on so many levels, all of which are abhorrent to me, for problems, but there’s just not a damn thing I can do about it. If there was any way it could happen, that it would honestly benefit everyone, I wouldn’t think twice about following Yohji’s lead and begging Chloé to stay, but…

But I’ve already resigned myself to it being an impossible dream. Yohji mightn’t agree, but, really, *would* it be fair? It’s all very well the pair of us having this conversation, but what are Chloé’s opinions on the subject? I suspect -- and have for quite a while -- he adores Yohji as much as Yohji adores him, but what about Faith?

Faith, who to my terminal disgust, I’m actually… jealous… of. 

Jealous! I’ve never, well, not in these sorts of terms anyway, been jealous of anyone in my life.

It’s pathetic, and I hate myself for it, but when I see him with Chloé a decidedly sickly green color tinges my vision and, like some sort of wronged housewife, I view -- an imaginary neon sign reading ‘Home Wrecker’ above his head -- him, in a sense, as competition. Don’t get me wrong, I actually like Faith. He’s a very nice person and I’m happy to have him as a friend but, during these last few days, whenever I’ve seen him with Chloé I’ve just… bristled.

Yet I don’t… bristle… whenever Yohji -- *my* Yohji -- and Chloé are together. No. I smile to myself and either go about my business or meander over to join them. And when we’re together like that -- like we were on the sofa the other day -- I feel…

Whole.

I accept that it’s stupid… and inane… and… *weak*… but it’s just how it is. I love them both so much that when I’m with them the world just seems a little less dark and the future a little brighter.

But… It doesn’t matter. Chloé can go to Paris with Rosary while the rest of us go back to London and, whether it runs as well as it had been or not, life will just go on.

It’s just how it is.

“Aya? Are you even listening to me?”

Huh? What?

Yohji closing his hand around my shoulder startling me out of my reverie, I squirm away from him and give him an indignant look. “Of course I’m listening to you,” I mutter. “I was just thinking of an answer to give you that would both appease you and get you off my back.”

“I’m actually more interested in the truth than I am in being fobbed off,” Yohji replies, gazing at me speculatively. “So, come on, out with it. If you want Chloé to stay as much as I do, what’s stopping you from doing something about it. While he humors me I know both that he listens to you and that the… request… would be better coming from you than it would me. Aya… Come on. You’ve got to say something to him.”

“I don’t,” I respond, shifting away from Yohji and turning to gaze out into the rain drenched world outside of the window, “and I won’t. We just have to accept that he’s chosen Faith and Rosary and that, Yohji, is all there is to it. We have no right to…”

“Aya! How can you be so damn cool when…”

“It’s easy, actually,” I interrupt hollowly, focusing my attention on the rain drops as they slither down the window. “Chloé accepted -- without comment, I might add -- things when we got back together and I have to insist we return the favor. I’ll miss him, but so be it. This is the only fair and right thing to do and, if you’d stop thinking solely of yourself for a second, you’d see it too. Contrary to what his feelings may be, he let me go without… a fight… and now it’s our turn to do the same. As he once said to me, Faith, to him, is what you are to me…”

Positioning himself behind me, Yohji tentatively wraps his arms around my waist and rests his head on my shoulder. “Even if your reasons are the right ones,” he whispers, hugging me as I relax against him, “I still think you’re giving up too easily, but… Okay… Because I accept I can hardly mount the argument I wanted to without you, I suppose I’ll give up and wave the white flag of defeat too.”

How… very odd. While I should be basking in my success of wearing Yohji down, I still feel as though I’d like nothing more than to scream. Or, worse, cry.

Having heard him say this quite a few times, I can now say that I agree with Yohji in that logic *is* overrated.

“It’s not defeat,” I murmur, folding my hands over Yohji’s and closing my eyes. “It’s… right. What we’re doing is what’s right for Chloé and, again, that’s all that really matters here. If it’s what he truly wants then he deserves to be with Faith again.”

“Maybe you’re right,” Yohji responds softly, hugging me just that little bit tighter. “I… I’m not happy about it though and, regardless of what your opinion might be in respect to this, I’m telling you now that I’m still going to tell Chloé how I feel. I… have to. After losing Asuka and very nearly losing the pair of you too, I just want him to know… I won’t beg or try and get him to change his mind, promise, but I really want him to know how I feel…”

Sighing, I open my eyes and, with a bit of creative wriggling, turn around to rest my head on Yohji’s chest. “I’m sure he’ll appreciate it,” I whisper, wrapping my arms around Yohji’s back and returning his embrace. “I… If it makes you feel any better I’ll try and see him before he leaves too.”

“Try?” Yohji snorts, kissing the top of my head. “How very big and understanding of you. Don’t, you know, put yourself out or anything.”

Smart-ass.

Looking up, I give Yohji’s cheek a quick kiss before pulling away from him and returning to my position by the sink. “Something’s don’t come as easily to me as they do you,” I confess, shrugging. “But, I… I’ll do it. Promise.”

“You’d better,” Yohji retorts, glancing at his watch and frowning. “Actually, because I’m all revved up, I’m going to go talk to Chloé now.” Pausing, he walks over and, cupping my cheek in his palm, kisses my forehead. “As this may very well be your last chance, Aya, are you sure you don’t want to come with me?”

“I’m positive,” I murmur, nodding as Yohji pulls his hand away and slowly begins walking towards the door. “It has to be this way. I… I’m sorry but, for the reasons I’ve tried to explain to you, it has to be.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Yohji mutters, unlocking the door and glancing sadly over his shoulder at me. “You do of course realize that by merrily waving Chloé off you’re going to be stuck with me twenty-four-seven,” he adds, the wink he punctuates his statement with doing nothing to detract from both his flat tone of voice and equally as flat expression. “Think about it, Aya. Me and you, with only Free and Ken to fall back on…”

Choosing -- wisely -- not to wait around for some sort of response to his… charming… comment, Yohji slips through the door and disappears as silently as he’d arrived, leaving me once again alone in the kitchen.

Goddamn it! Why’d he have to leave on such a horrid and disconcerting thought?

Talk to Ken? About what? Football? Whether I had any sort of inkling taking on the name Mamoru was going to turn Omi into such a prick? Despite having known Ken for years now I can’t imagine ever sitting down and… *talking*… to him. What’s more, I doubt he’d encourage the bonding any more than I would. We’re friends, and we look out for each other, but that’s as far as our relationship goes.

As for Free? Christ. Just because I don’t have any problems with him doesn’t mean I want to take him aside and ask him for advice.

While I don’t have a problem… per se… with being stuck with Yohji, I now can’t help but realize how spoilt I’ve been having Chloé to talk to. Not to mention how much I’ve both adapted to and come to rely on it. Whenever I’ve wanted him he’s always just been there and now… Shit! Now he won’t be. 

He’ll be in Paris -- with *Faith* -- and while phones are always an option, they’re not the same as sitting across from someone and knowing all they have to do is lean over and either touch or hug you when you sound as though you’re faltering and can’t go on without support.

Logic sucks. Being noble and always doing the right thing sucks.

And, Goddamn it, this nonstop fucking rain sucks too!

As much as our ‘let’s do the tourist thing and show Yuki and Michel around Tokyo’ thing – in a, just to really make the experience as excruciating as possible, a purple and green, Dragon’s Tears mini van borrowed from Bengal -- has been pushing my buttons over the past few days, at least it meant that I was *doing* something and that I was away from Souzou. The forecast -- rain, rain, followed by a bit more rain and quite possibly gale force winds and a thunderstorm -- for today was so bad though that, for the sake of safety more than anything else, we didn’t really have any choice other than to call the day’s tour off and to remain lurking around the house.

Unfortunately.

Sighing, I fill the kettle with water and put it on the stove to boil. I don’t feel like -- anything, actually -- a cup of tea, but making it will give me something to do and that, right now, is the important thing.

Must. Keep. Busy.

Must. Not. Think.

Bending down to retrieve a teapot from the cupboard alongside the stove, I’m in the process of straightening up when -- déjà vu strikes -- the sound of someone quietly entering the kitchen once again reaches my ears.

“Aya… We really need to talk.”

Struggling not to flinch as I recognize Faith’s voice, I place the teapot on the sink and calmly turn around to face him. “Talk?” I query politely. “About what exactly?”

… You’ve won. I’ve -- without even mounting a fight -- given up. And if you’ve come to gloat I may just have to kick you, which, given how frail and out of it you still look would be regrettable, but, there you go. In fact, if you’re truly as intelligent and as caring as I’ve been led to believe, you’ll realize that you’re placing yourself in a no-win situation by wanting anything to do with me and will turn around and leave now.

Giving me one of Yuushi’s ‘poor deluded, contrary boy’ looks, Faith gives a slight shake of his head and seats himself in the chair Yohji had been using at the table. “Allow me to rephrase that,” he murmurs, smiling. “I want to talk to you and I’d appreciate it, even if it does necessitate a lot of teeth grinding and shoulder tensing on your behalf, if you’d grant me the courtesy of listening to what I have to say.”

“The way you say it almost makes me think I’ve got a choice,” I reply, shrugging as I turn back to face the bench and continue on with my tea preparation. “I’m sorry, Faith. I don’t wish to appear rude but, unless it’s related to either Schwarz or Infinity, I honestly can’t think of a single thing you need to say to me.”

“You’re an obtuse creature,” Faith comments with a hint of amusement in his voice. “You have no idea what I’m going to say yet you’re already on the defensive. I can’t help but be struck by the likelihood that, speaking proverbially here, you’d not only look a gift horse in the mouth but you’d also glower at him until he regretted ever having crossed your path.”

Defensive? This? He’s lived an incredibly sheltered life if he thinks *this* is defensive.

“I’m not defensive,” I mutter… defensively… while hesitating over what flavor tea to put into the pot. “I just don’t feel as though you could possibly have anything to say to me,” I continue, shrugging again as, deferring to my unwanted guest’s tastes, I reach for the blackcurrant tea. “But, please, if there is something you’re wanting to get off your chest, feel free to talk at me all you like.”

“You really are quite unlike anyone else I’ve ever met,” Faith replies with a laugh. “Yet at the same time, and don’t ask me how this works as I don’t have an answer for you, you’re so similar, in so many ways to…” Trailing off, Faith sighs and lightly drums his fingers on the tabletop. “Aya, while I’ll understand if you don’t wish to sit with me, I have to nonetheless ask that you at least look at me.”

The sound of the kettle boiling taking my perfect, readymade excuse away from me, I turn the stove off and pour the boiling water into the teapot. “Can I just finish making the tea first?” I reply, idly wishing I hadn’t been so quick in chasing Yohji out of the kitchen as -- just call me spineless -- I’d really rather not be having to deal with Faith on my own.

“As you wish,” Faith responds, his fingers stilling on the table.

Silently mimicking -- because I’m behaving like a five year old who doesn’t want to do what his big brother is telling him to -- Faith’s response under my breath, I pour out two cups of blackcurrant tea and, with what I just know has to be a sullen look on my face, walk over and place one on the table in front of Faith. “Here. You may as well have this. I… I was just making myself a cup anyway.”

Lifting the cup and inhaling the tea’s fruity aroma, Faith looks up at me and smiles. “You were just making yourself a cup of… blackcurrant… tea?” he queries teasingly. “My timing was most… advantageous… then.” 

“You don’t have to drink it,” I shoot back sourly, returning to my current favorite spot by the sink and, picking up my own cup, scowling down at it.

“Stubborn *and* set in your ways, yet, at the same time, inherently kind and thoughtful,” Faith replies, still smiling as he takes a sip of his tea. “I can see why, despite your faults, you mean so much to so many people.”

Now -- lovely. Just lovely -- here we *really* go.

“If you’re here to psychoanalyze me,” I retort with a derisive snort, “give it up now. People who have known me for far longer than you have haven’t been able to successfully manage it so, and please don’t take this the wrong way, you’ve really got no hope.”

“I have no wish to psychoanalyze you, Aya,” Faith replies, placing his cup back down on the table and folding his hands around it. “As you may have already guessed, I wish to talk about Chloé.”

On second thought, please, psychoanalyze me. Ask me about my relationship with my mother or my phobias and, despite it pissing me off, I promise I’ll be nothing but honest. Chloé though… Hell. Having to endure my least favorite topic of conversation twice in less than thirty minutes makes me feel as though I’m being punished for something I can’t even recall having done.

“There’s nothing to talk about in respect to Chloé,” I mutter with, this time, a hint of petulance mingling in with the defensive tone of my voice. “If he has chosen to return to Rosary then I am happy for him. I’m not, if this is what you’re worried about, going to put up a fight or behave in an unbecoming manner.”

“You’re right actually, Aya,” Faith murmurs, taking another mouthful of tea and calmly gazing over at me. “That is what I’m worried about, just… Just not in the way you’re thinking.”

Why me? Why do I always get the cryptic ones? Sometimes I just feel as though I have to be some sort of magnet to them or something. Either that or I must have wronged someone high up the food chain in a former life.

“Faith… I…”

“I love Chloé more than anything,” Faith states quietly, cutting me off and lowering his gaze to the tabletop. “Ignoring recent betrayals and the perpetuated myth of blood always being thicker than water, he’s always meant more to me than anyone else, Keegan included, in my life. As much as the goal of bringing down Rosenkrus might drive me, it’s always been the… belief… that Chloé would one day be back with Rosary, with… me… that’s given me hope.”

The quiet emotion in Faith’s voice going a long way in softening my defensive, annoyed feelings towards him, I carry my tea over to the table and sit down. “You don’t have to tell me any of…”

“Please, Aya, let me talk,” Faith interrupts, looking up and giving me a vaguely imploring look. “This is actually… hard… for me and, meaning what I said earlier about going to talk *at* you, I just want to get it done. So, please… Just listen to what I have to say and, if you have to, save your questions until I’ve finished. If it helps at all, I’m not going to say what you’re probably sitting there expecting me to.”

“Um… Okay,” I reply, a little taken aback by Faith’s decidedly lackluster and, well, quite frankly *odd* demeanor. While still not really wanting to have any part in this conversation, I’m now -- both slightly and grudgingly -- curious as to what Faith’s going to say and lean forward in my seat. “Go ahead then, talk.” 

Nodding, Faith takes another sip of his tea and returns his gaze to the table. “As I just said,” he murmurs softly, “I love Chloé and have done so for a grand total of twelve years. We’ve been through a lot together and both his safety and happiness are of paramount importance to me. When he phoned to tell me he’d decided to join a team in England I was more relieved than jealous because it meant that he was no longer going to be on his own and not a day goes by that I don’t thank Krypton Brand for, well, becoming his family.” Pausing, Faith sighs down into his cup and runs his finger around its rim. “Aya… It’s because I love him that I have to ask you to convince him to stay with Krypton Brand…”

Nearly dropping my tea in surprise, I carefully place my cup down on the table and stare at Faith in astonishment. Without wanting to make light of his obviously heartfelt bombshell, I doubt I’d be any more shocked if he’d just ran his foot up my leg and propositioned me.

“Faith, I… Are you sure you know…”

“Let me finish, please,” Faith responds while gazing at me fleetingly. “I have my reasons, of course, and once I’ve finished sharing them I hope you’ll see things from my point of view and take my request into consideration. As I’m sure you can imagine, it is not one that I make lightly.”

“No, of course it isn’t,” I reply, my mind failing dismally in its quick attempt to second guess where Faith is going with this. “So… Uh… I’m listening.”

“Have you honestly given any thought to how much disruption Chloé will cause if he leaves?” Faith queries rhetorically, frowning at his cup as he lifts it to his lips. “You may or may not have noticed it but he’s like a brother to Michel. They’ve lived together now for six years and Michel will be devastated if he goes. He’s close to Free, granted, but it’s Chloé he goes to if he’s got a problem. Even Ken will miss having him around to argue and banter with. As for yourself and Yohji…”

“I get the picture,” I interrupt, shrugging, “and, while you’re right in that we *would* all miss him, that’s no reason for him not to go. He has to do what he *wants* to do, not what everyone else thinks they want. I thought you more than anyone would hold that opinion.”

“Another reason is that I believe he’d be safer remaining with Krypton Brand,” Faith continues -- as though I’d never even spoken -- dully. “You saw the effort Schwarz, with Rosenkrus’ backing, put into trying to capture me and I know you know as well as I do that they’ll try again. I say this not because I’m afraid for myself but because it’s a fact. If it’s not Schwarz then Rosenkrus will send someone else or another team after me. Don’t get me wrong, I know full well that Chloé’s capable of looking after himself and that he’s excellent at what he does. What I also think… no… *know*, however, is that he’s better off staying as far away from the lingering threat of Rosenkrus as he possibly can. Not to mention I don’t want to be responsible for increasing his risk of possible exposure to Schuldig.”

“While your points are logical,” I murmur, my levels of astonishment steadily growing as Faith calmly presents me with sides of the story I hadn’t so much as given thought to, “you’re essentially sitting there putting words into Chloé’s mouth for him. Besides, given that your team is non-lethal, couldn’t we argue that he’d actually be safer in Rosary than he would Krypton Brand?” 

“You could also argue, if you were so inclined, that with our line work *nowhere* is entirely safe,” Faith replies while shrugging and, lifting his head, looking across at me. “I know what you’re getting at, Aya and if it were only those two reasons I wouldn’t be sitting here having this conversation with you. I just mentioned them because, while not the true crux of the matter, they’re still important and I thought you should hear them from me. The real reason I’m asking you to stop Chloé from leaving is…” Trailing off, Faith leans back in his chair and fixes his very violet and vaguely sad looking eyes on mine. “Aya… The reason I’m here putting you on the spot is because although he’s said he’ll rejoin Rosary, it’s not what Chloé wants. What he wants is to stay with Krypton Brand, with… with both you and Yohji…”

“Huh?” I grunt, Faith’s statement rendering me momentarily incapable of forming a more coherent and… polite… response. 

If he wants to stay, then why…

I don’t get it. 

“It’s the truth, Aya,” Faith murmurs wearily, still watching me closely and giving no signs of being either offended or surprised by my lack of response. “He wants to stay but, because he doesn’t want to be in the way, he’ll put himself out and leave.”

“In the way?” I echo, frowning at Faith as I struggle to make sense of what it is he’s trying to get through to me. “What do you mean… ‘in the way’? In whose way? I don’t understand.”

Sighing, Faith finishes his tea and gives me a pleading -- ‘can’t you just accept what I’m telling you and leave it be?’ -- look. “He’s afraid that he’ll get in the way between you and Yohji,” he explains softly. “What he wants even more than to stay with Krypton Brand is for your relationship to survive.”

“But our relationship isn’t in doubt!” I blurt out, for once not even caring that I’m having what I view as a personal conversation with someone who really has nothing to do with it. “Again, I don’t understand. Have we done something to hurt Chloé? Because, if we have, you’ve got to believe me when I say it was never our intention as… Hell… Neither of us would ever do anything to hurt him if we could at all help it.”

Smiling, Faith shakes his head. “That’s not it at all,” he replies, the saddened expression he’d been wearing on his face for the past few minutes being replaced by one of relief. “Neither of you have done a thing wrong and I *know* you’d never do anything to hurt him. In fact, that’s why I’m asking you to stop him from doing something he’ll only regret. Chloé… because he believes -- and this, incidentally, is courtesy of his father’s influence more than anyone else’s -- he’s a nuisance, he never wants to put anyone out and will put himself out instead. As you can probably recall from that… ‘movie’… I showed you about his history, although I tried to impress on him that he has to live his life for himself, not anyone else, he still couldn’t make the promise to always put himself first. It… It’s just how he is…”

“But…” While I understand a little better now, I’m still confused. Very confused, in fact. “Faith… Why? If he wants to stay then he should stay. I thought he’d simply decided to go with you because of… well… your past together and that, you know, it was what he *wanted* to do.”

Right?

“Part of him does,” Faith responds, standing up and carrying his empty cup over to the sink. “He wants to be with you… with Yohji, too, actually… more though. You both mean a lot to him and he’s happy with you.”

“Why?” Again. God help me. I’m so perplexed that I’m allowing myself to sound like a child. A *simple* child at that. “I mean, how could we possibly mean more to him than you?” I continue hurriedly, twisting around in my seat to watch Faith as he washes his cup. “Don’t get me wrong, I… *we*… both care for him and nobody wants to see him go, but…”

“Whether you’re even aware of it or not, Aya, your acceptance, and Yohji’s too, of him is both unconditional and absolute,” Faith states, drying his cup on a tea towel before returning it to the cupboard and replicating my earlier position of leaning his back against the sink. “You’re both, compared to the rest of us Rosenkrus freaks anyway, normal and you treat him as though he’s normal too. While it mightn’t seem like anything to you, it means a lot to him and, because of this, what you and Yohji offer him isn’t something I’ll ever be able to reproduce. He loves you, Aya. Despite having to encounter Schuldig again and nearly dying, he has no regrets about coming to Tokyo because he was able to save you from Takeda and that, to him, makes it all worthwhile.”

There being no argument, logical or otherwise, I can think of hitting Faith with, I sigh and, after quickly gulping down the last of my tea, stand up. “What about you?” I query softly, hesitating over joining Faith by the sink and remaining by my chair. “If I do as you ask and try to talk Chloé around -- oh, and by the way, regardless of not having my blessings, that’s what Yohji’s attempting to do now -- how are you going to feel? It just… I’m sorry. It’s just that none of it strikes me as particularly fair. I’ll admit that the last thing I want is to lose Chloé, but, really, is what’s being proposed really fair on everyone?” 

… Help me, please. Your argument having gotten through to me far better than Yohji’s, I’m already faltering, but… this last point… If you can make sense of it for me you win and I’ll do what I can to get it through to Chloé that he’s not, and never *could* be, in the way.

“For someone who’s never experienced a relationship in the traditional sense of the word,” Faith replies, looking oddly amused, “you sure seem stuck on thinking along those lines. Relationships, Aya, don’t have to be about sex or binding yourself solely to another. To you, and before you get narky here, yes, in order to wrap this up, I confess that I *have* read you, they’re more about trust, friendship, and comfort than anything else and that is what the three of you have. And it *works*. I saw you on the sofa the other day, Chloé on one side of you and Yohji on the other, and you looked…”

… Fine. I give up. Be it the right thing to do or not, you win.

“As though I was going to start purring,” I interject quietly, walking over and, as Faith shifts to one side to make room for me, placing my cup on the sink. “Well, that was Ken’s take on it, anyway. He… What’s more, he was right. When I’m with Yohji and Chloé I feel… complete, as though, together, they make me whole. I… The only reason I haven’t, much to Yohji’s disgust, said anything to Chloé about leaving is because I wanted to do the right thing by him and… and I thought I was…”

“And you were,” Faith declares matter-of-factly, placing his hand lightly on my arm. “If Chloé wasn’t the way he is, what you were doing was definitely the right thing. You weren’t interfering and you were letting him make his own decisions. No one could have asked for more. As for how I feel about? Well…” Smiling wanly, Faith takes his hand away from my arm and, after quickly placing a kiss on my cheek, begins to stroll across to the door. “More than anything,” he continues, pausing by the door, “I want what’s best for Chloé and, because I know this is what he wants, I’m… happy… with it. It doesn’t change things between us at all. Like you and Yohji, we’ve been through too much together to ever be fully separated. Besides, this is by no means an end and, not only that, but things are different now. We’ll be able to see each other, commitments notwithstanding, whenever we feel like it. So, Aya, this is most definitely the best for all concerned.”

“Mmm…” Reluctantly accepting that, having said what he came here to say, Faith’s had enough of being forthright with me and is wanting to leave, I bite back a sigh and nod. “Leave Chloé to me,” I murmur as, opening the door, Faith glances back over his shoulder at me. “If I don’t get through to him I’ll do the tag-team thing with Yohji so, one way or the other, I’m sure we’ll be able to get our feelings through to him. Oh… And Faith? About your brother, I’m so…”

“What brother?” Faith interrupts, his expression closing over as he steps through the door. “I have no brother,” he adds flatly, pulling the door shut and leaving me once again alone -- and ever-so-slightly shell-shocked -- in the kitchen. 

Well, okay… If I was in his shoes I probably wouldn’t own up to ever having had a brother either.

Turning back around to face the sink, I wash my cup and, after drying it, return it to the cupboard. The world outside the kitchen window is gray, rain drenched, and depressing looking and, as I look out across the lawn, an arc of lightning briefly illuminates the gazebo in a bright flash of light. A low rumble of thunder swiftly follows and -- mildly peeved that the lightning didn’t set the gazebo alight -- once it has finished rolling across Souzou I turn and head out of the kitchen.

Both Michel and Free are in the living room, Michel sitting cross-legged in front of the fire while Free sits in his current armchair of choice reading his book, and neither speak to me as I walk through. Michel tears his attention away from the fire just long enough for me to see that his eyes are red from crying before swiftly looking back down again and studiously combing his fingers through Snowball’s thick fur as she lies sprawled out on the carpet in front of him.

Berating myself for not having thought -- outside the confines of my self-imposed box -- about the impact Chloé’s leaving would have on the others, I contemplate telling Michel not to worry, that, better late than never, I’m hopefully on to it, but, wary of getting his hopes up, control myself. 

Just because I like to *think* I can get through to Chloé doesn’t, of course, mean that I actually can, and… Yeah… It’s probably just better if I wait for confirmation first before I go opening my mouth and blithely making statements that may yet prove to be out of my grasp.

Shaking my head, I step out of the living room and walk down the corridor to Chloé’s room. Thinking as little of his hospital room as I had, he made a point of getting himself out of it as soon as Dr Miyazaki gave -- up -- him the go ahead and is now in the room that Ken and Omi had been sharing while Ken has shifted himself into the rooms vacated by Crashers. Having, as Yohji so astutely pointed out, been avoiding him -- allegedly for his own good -- I haven’t yet been in the room and I’m thinking about how he may have gone about personalizing it when, an unlit cigarette already in hand, Yohji walks through the door and gives me a curious look.

“Hey,” he murmurs, tucking his smoke behind his ear and leaning against the wall. “What are you doing in these parts, huh? Don’t tell me you’re suddenly seeing things my way?”

“While not your way, per se,” I reply, shifting closer to Yohji and keeping my voice low in the hope of stopping Chloé from hearing any of our conversation, “I am, however, now prepared to see what I can do about…”

“Ha!” Yohji exclaims, grabbing my shoulder and all but swinging me across to the other side of the corridor in his excitement. “You’ve been Faith-ed, haven’t you?”

“Faith-ed?” I query, shrugging off Yohji’s hand and giving his arm a poke. “What are you talking about? If that’s your way of asking if Faith just came and had a chat with me, then the answer is yes, he did. What’s more, he explained things to me in terms that I, and I’m sure you hadn’t either, for that matter, even thought of. So… Yeah… Here I am…”

Retrieving his lighter from his pocket, Yohji gives the flame a token flick into life and shoots me a wounded look. “Well, come on then, what did Faith say to you to get you to change your stubborn, set-in-the-mud ways? It must have been good seeing as it clearly got through to you.”

“It depends on your definition of good,” I respond, glancing across at Chloé’s door as I step closer to Yohji and give him a quick hug. “And, I… I will tell you. Just not now though. I need to do this first, before…”

“Before you make the mistake of second guessing yourself,” Yohji finishes, nodding as he grins happily. “Hey, in that case, I’m outta here. You do what you have to do and I’ll be back to reap the rewards.”

“Mmm…” Backing away from Yohji, I’m about to walk across to the door when I suddenly remember that he hasn’t said anything about his success… or lack thereof… “Oh! Hang on. How’d your… little chat… go? Did Chloé listen to you?”

“Well, I got everything off my chest, if that’s what you’re wanting to know,” Yohji responds, giving me a coy look as he plucks his cigarette from behind his ear and starts to roll it between his fingers. “If I wanted to say it, I said it. It was actually kinda liberating.”

“Mmm…” Why does this sound very much like a non-answer? “And, Chloé, how’d he react?”

“Ah…

“Ah? Ah *what*?”

“Well, you see, Chloé was kinda asleep…”

“He was *asleep*?”

“Well, yeah… He still gets tired easily and… Okay. You know that already and you don’t need me telling you it again. Fine. When I got to his room he was already asleep but, just like you now, I didn’t want to waste my… I don’t know… motivation or whatever… and told him anyway.”

“Yohji…”

“I know, I know! It was a waste of time, you don’t have to tell me that. But… But what else could I do, huh? When I left you I was convinced you weren’t going to so much as try to stop him and I just wanted to get out how much he means to me and…”

“Shhh… It’s okay, Yohji. I’m not laughing at you and, if it makes you feel any better, if he’s still asleep there’s a chance I’m about to do the exact same thing. Now, go on, seeing as you look like you need it, go and have your smoke. We’ll talk later.”

Nodding, Yohji looks across at Chloé’s door and, gesturing at it, smiles softly. “Who knows, although he didn’t say anything, he may even have been awake.”

Returning his smile, I close my hand around the door handle and nod. “It wouldn’t surprise me,” I whisper, watching Yohji walk down the corridor before, with a deep, imaginary breath to calm myself, opening the door and stepping into the room. As Yohji had said, Chloé’s asleep -- or, alternatively, doing a very good job of pretending to be -- on the bed. Lying on his side and covered in a leopard print blanket that I remember Yohji having during our first stay at Souzou, he certainly *looks* to be dead to the world but, again, who knows. As to be expected, Mystique, her fur almost an exact match to the print on the blanket, is curled in a ball by his knees while Tantomile, her golden eyes glinting in the gentle glow of the light coming from the collection of candles on the bedside table as she watches me, is sitting -- looking more witch-like than I’ve ever seen her -- on the chest-of-drawers.

Hesitating over what to do next, I come to a stop at the foot of the bed and stare down at Chloé. Asleep or not, he looks peaceful and, suddenly wanting to be closer to him, I kick my boots off and crawl gingerly onto the bed. When he gives no sign of either waking or acknowledging my arrival, I settle myself with my leg against the line of his back and my back up against the pillows. Giving a chirrup of approval, Tantomile waits until I’m comfortable before jumping onto the mattress from the chest-of-drawers and, with a cursory lick of Mystique’s head as she passes, settling herself on my lap.

Absent-mindedly scratching Tantomile behind the ears, I realize two things as I continue to gaze down at Chloé. One is how the tides have now turned in that just a little over a week ago it was Chloé watching me while I slept, and the second is that, again, what Yohji said in the kitchen just happens to be right. During the past three days, while we’ve been doing the tourist thing in Tokyo, I *was* constantly looking around for Chloé. Not only did I expect him to be there -- to share my disbelief at something that had offended me, or to point out something that I knew he’d like -- but, more than that, I *wanted* him to be there. And, yes, I’ve *missed* him. I’ve missed being able to talk to him and I’ve missed the quiet, comfortable times we’re capable of spending together like this.

“You…”

I don’t care if he’s asleep or that I may possibly be running the risk of waking him. I’ve got to say it and I’ve got to say it now.

“Chloé… I know you’ve got your reasons and I don’t want to either denigrate them or to sound as though I’m trying to force my opinions on to you, but… Please. I don’t want you to go. You’re not, and never could be, in the way. As much as I love Yohji, I… I love you too, and… and I’ll miss you… So, please… Stay. I… we… both want and need you.”

My voice breaking, I look away from Chloé and gaze, without really seeing them, at the flickering candles. There. I’ve done it. Whether I was only talking to myself -- and the cats -- or not, I’ve now said it as both succinctly and heartfelt as I know how to.

“I’m sorry,” Chloé whispers faintly, poking his hand out from underneath the leopard-print blanket but, other than that, making no move to roll over and face me. Clutched tightly in his hand is his rose quartz rosary beads and the sight of them causes an unwanted and momentary flicker of doubt. What if Faith’s wrong and this *isn’t* what Chloé wants? What if I’ve upset him? 

What if I don’t say what I came here to say and spend the rest of my life regretting it?

What if I stop procrastinating and actually get on with it?

“Sorry?” I murmur gently, pushing the doubt to the back of my mind and placing my hand lightly on Chloé’s back. “What on earth have you got to be sorry about?”

“For being in the way,” Chloé replies, rolling the beads between his fingers as though he’s actually mentally running through the rosary. “Aya… I… I’m so sorry for being a nuisance and…”

“Chloé… Shhh… I don’t want to hear nonsense like this. You’re not…”

“No! Listen to me, please,” Chloé murmurs, the almost pleading tone of his voice causing Mystique to wake up and peer at him with concern. “I know I should have said this to you earlier but, not being able to take back time, I’m going to say it now and beg of you to just hear me out. Aya? Please…”

“I’m listening.” It apparently being my day for it, really, what else could I say?

“I never meant for any of this to happen. You were supposed to be safe,” Chloé replies softly, the rosary beads falling from his hand as he reaches out and trails his fingers down Mystique’s flank. “I knew, thanks to Ken shooting his mouth off, about Yohji long before you told me and because, just like me, you had someone else, I thought you’d be… safe. I thought that we could be friends and that would be the end of it. One day you’d wake up to the fact that you couldn’t be fully happy without Yohji and, one way or another, he’d end up back in your life. Again, because I was both accepting and fully understanding of this, I thought nothing of allowing myself to become close to you. You weren’t, so to speak, a long term proposition. I never expected for you to mean so much to me in such a short space of time. Nor did I ever expect to fall in love with you…”

“Chloé…”

“Ah! I was pausing to get my words together, not for you to interrupt,” Chloé mutters, sighing as, finding my company clearly lacking, Tantomile clambers over his hip to join Mystique in peering intently at his face. “As I just said though, regardless of it not being my intention, you’re very special to me and, yes, I’ve loved you for some time now. That aside, when your heart momentarily took control of your head and you brought Yohji into Krypton Brand, I was still happy for you. I knew that it would change things between us but, because I’d both expected it and knew it was what, deep down, you wanted, it didn’t bother me. For your sake and for Yohji’s, I wanted things to work out perfectly for you. It’s *still* what I want. Because Yohji’s done such a fine job of ingratiating himself into my life, I want the pair of you to be happy together and I will do whatever it takes to give you the best chance possible.”

“Even going so far as to give up your home and… family?” I query softly, nothing in what Chloé’s just said coming as any great surprise to me. “If so, you’re being silly. Noble, for sure, but also incredibly silly. Nobody wants you to go, Chloé. *Nobody*. Least of all either Yohji or myself.”

“You don’t need me around,” Chloé murmurs, opening his eyes and, after gently shifting the cats out of his way, throwing back the blanket and swinging his legs over the edge of the mattress. “I… I’m in the way and I should go,” he continues tiredly, burying his face in his hands. “I heard everything Yohji had to say and I’m touched, but… but you can’t really want me around, not if you think about it. It’s in everyone’s best interests if I return with Rosary to Paris. That way you can get on with your relationship and…”

That’s it! I’ve had enough of this. I don’t want to be in this position and I refuse point blank to continue letting Chloé ramble on like this. Whether he thinks he needs to say it or not, I don’t want to hear it and I’ll be damned if I’m going to let it go any longer.

“If you heard everything Yohji said then you know how deadly serious we are about this,” I state firmly, interrupting Chloé and, crawling over to him, draping myself over his slumped shoulders. “Your reasons for wanting to be a martyr are both considerate and considered, but they’re also crap. If you want to rejoin Rosary so you can be with Faith then go, you have our blessings. We’ll even offer Michel a shoulder to cry on in an attempt to keep the long distance phone calls down to a minimum. If, however, you’re only going in order to give Yohji and myself space then forget it. We don’t want space. As I’m sure Yohji did a far better job of telling you than I am, what we happen to want is you. You’re a part of us. The thought of you not being around in unbearable to me and, because of his lack of memory, you’ve come to mean as much to Yohji as I do. So, come on, Chloé… Look me in the eye and tell me that you’re honestly happy with the idea of leaving…”

Sighing, Chloé places his hand over mine and shakes his head. “It’s a bit hard looking you in the eye when you’re behind me,” he replies facetiously, twisting his head to glance at me. “Aya…”

“That’s easily fixed,” I interrupt, giving Chloé’s shoulders a quick squeeze before climbing off the bed and crouching in front of him. “Okay. You’re looking at me now, so, come on, let’s hear it. Paris, or… home?”

Shaking his head again, Chloé lowers his head and avoids eye contact. “I don’t want to be in the way,” he protests. “I… I want to stay but not if it’s going to put either of you out. You don’t need me…”

“That, actually, is where you’re wrong,” I smile, settling my hands on Chloé’s knees and placing myself directly in front of his line of sight. “We do need you, and the reason we need you is because we’re both so content with how things have been going that we’ve become spoilt and don’t want anything to change. How many times do I have to tell you these things? You’re not in the way, we want you to stay, you’re a part of us, and, seriously, we *do* need you…” Trailing off, a thought suddenly enters my head. “Oh… If the idea makes you uncomfortable then…”

“It doesn’t make me uncomfortable,” Chloé whispers, finally meeting my gaze and smiling softly. “What it makes me feel is… lucky. Even, like you said, spoilt. So, I… I’ll talk to Faith and, if it’s honestly okay with both you and Yohji, I’ll stay…”

Yes! 

“Hallelujah,” I grin, as all the tension of the past few days just ups and leaves me. “You have no idea, given how these sorts of conversation are hardly what I’d call a good time, how glad I am to hear that.”

“Actually, what exactly do you call a good time?” Chloé queries lightly, cupping my cheek in the palm of his hand. “Yohji, I can hazard a guess at -- and, by the way, has he shared with you his theories on how… attractive… we look together? -- but you, Aya, you’re a little trickier.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” I murmur, sliding my hands along Chloé’s thighs and up under his arms. I then slowly stand up, ensuring he rises with me, and hug him tightly. “I’m come to view this as quite a reasonable way to spend my time,” I add as, his arms settling around my back, he instinctually returns the embrace. “What about you, does it work for you too?”

“Surprisingly enough, I have to say that it does,” Chloé replies with a soft, happy sounding laugh. “I… Thank you, Aya. I’ll thank Yohji too, but I just want you to know how much this means to me and how grateful I am for the pair of you…”

“That’d be right,” Yohji interjects with a mock snort as, without knocking, he opens the door and steps into the room. “You played dead for me but the second Aya opens his mouth you’re all ears. Chloé-kins, if you’re not careful I might just develop a complex.”

“You’ll do more than just develop a complex if you keep calling me Chloé-kins,” Chloé retorts, stumbling against me as, with no finesse whatsoever, Yohji squirms himself between the bed and his back. “Hey! Watch it!” he adds, grinning as Yohji’s arms snake around his waist and he suddenly finds himself effectively trapped between us. “You’re taking liberties, you are.”

“And seeing as you didn’t want to talk to me before, I don’t particularly want to hear from you now,” Yohji responds, winking at me over Chloé’s shoulder. “Honestly! I put everything I had into that little heart-to-heart I hit you with, but, did you listen to me? Oh no, of course not. Aya though… Anything he says you take as gospel.”

“As I’m positive I’ve told you before,” Chloé murmurs, his eyes widening slightly as Yohji rests his chin on his shoulder, “that’s because I’m *sure* of Aya. With you, however, well… Let’s just say I’ve still got my doubts and leave it at that.”

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that,” Yohji mutters, his own eyes widening as the door is once again opened and Michel comes barreling into the room. “Hey, look… A munchkin.”

Sensing his intent simultaneously, both Yohji and I release Chloé and take a step back as, with the same lack of grace demonstrated only a moment ago by Yohji, Michel attaches himself to Chloé’s waist. “Chloé, you’re not really going to leave us, are you?” he queries anxiously, gazing up at Chloé through worried looking light green eyes. “Please… You can’t. I don’t want you to go!”

Crouching down, Chloé places his hands on Michel’s shoulders and, with a smile, shakes his head. “No. I’m not going anywhere,” he states, glancing first at me then at Yohji. “I thought I had reasons for needing to go but it appears that I was wrong.”

“Thank. Christ,” Ken declares from the doorway as he and Yuki somehow manage, with only a few malevolent looks shot at each other in the process, to squash through it at the same time. “Does that mean we can now get the fuck out of here and go home?”

“Perhaps, as I believe there are things we need to attend to in Tokyo, we should leave tomorrow and return to the embassy,” Free suggests calmly, walking into the room as Yohji gravitates over to my side in order for us to stand side by side behind Chloé. “From there, I am sure you will all agree, it would easy for us to get to Narita.”

Standing up, Chloé, with Michel still standing just that little bit too close to him, curls his fingers around Yohji’s arm and nods. “Sounds good to me. Rosary were planning on spending a few days in Tokyo too, so they can come with us and we’ll all leave together. Aya?”

“Sounds good…”

“To me too,” Yohji finishes for me, smiling brightly.

And, what’s more, there’s no escaping that it does too.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“Oh! Oh my… Mika! Did you just see that, that… *disgusting*… display by those two unkempt louts over there?”

Wondering why the elderly, female, and indignant sounding voice is vaguely familiar, I twist around on the park bench I’m sitting on and glance behind me.

“I’m sorry, Ai,” Mika smiles, patting her companion on the arm as she nods a silent greeting at me. “I didn’t see anything.”

“Well it looked like a drug deal to me,” Ai states, years of watching society’s ongoing decay through the safety of her television set giving her voice just the right peevish note of a know-it-all. “The degenerate in the leather coat just gave the unshaven thug quite a considerable amount of cash.” Pausing, Ai brings her hand to her mouth and gives a delicate shake of her head. “In a cemetery of all places! Mika… Whatever is the world coming to?”

“I really am very sorry, but I didn’t see a thing,” Mika replies, linking her arm with Ai’s as they slowly continue their way along the grass towards the path. “I’m sure, however, you’re mistaken and that they’re not up to no good at all.”

“First that disgusting drunk a week or so ago, and now this!” Ai bemoans, her hand still hovering by her mouth as she plays the drama queen card as though her life depended on it. “I bet it was marijuana. That unshaven creature looks like a drug dealer, and, come to think of it, the other one looks decidedly high.”

The ‘disgusting drunk’ comment having reminded me that I first encountered Ai and her far more sensible friend after Rosary first rescued me from Schuldig and I woke up sprawled on the grass in front of my parents’ tombstones, I quickly suppress an amused smile and turn back around. While I know Yohji was only paying Masato the money he’d lost to him in the pool game at Souzou, I have to say I’m looking forward to his expression when I tell him that a little old lady thought he looked like he was off his face on pot. Priceless should have nothing on it. Masato’s too.

“You know something, I was reading in a magazine in the doctor’s waiting room the other day that scientific studies have proven that marijuana can be used to relieve the symptoms of arthritis,” Mika murmurs, giving Ai’s arm another pat as they step onto the path that leads in front of the park bench. “I have to say that I found the article to be most interesting and informative.”

“Mika!” Ai exclaims, her sense of self-righteous disgust shifting on from the ‘degenerates’, Yohji and Masato, and turning on her friend. “Drugs! Illegal drugs at that! How could you possibly find such an article interesting? I’m shocked. Both that you’re telling me about it and that it was in a doctor’s waiting room.”

Following Ai’s lead and hiding the smirk I can feel forming at her behavior behind my hand, I look further along the path and notice Yuushi walking towards Ai and Mika. Nearing them, the blandly polite smile he’d been sporting slips from his face and his expression swiftly changes to one of doubt. Glancing down at his clothing, he -- as surreptitiously as he possibly can -- checks that his fly isn’t down before frowning and casually speeding up his pace.

“Why do I get the feeling that I’ve done something to offend that old woman in the apricot colored coat?” Yuushi queries, joining me on the bench. “Honestly, Ran, you should have seen the look she gave me.”

“I wouldn’t let it worry you,” I smile while stretching and enjoying the almost forgotten feeling of the sun on my face. “She was probably just afraid you were part of Masato’s drug cartel and were going to try and push some contraband on her gullible friend.”

“Excuse… Uh… Never mind,” Yuushi replies, warmly returning my smile. “It’s good to see you again, Ran. You’re looking, if you don’t mind me saying, a lot better than you did when I last saw you too.”

“Things have all worked themselves out,” I murmur noncommittally, looking away from Yuushi and gazing at Chloé and Faith as they tend to the Nakagawas’ tombstones. Well, that is *Faith* -- does the grunt work -- tends to them while Chloé, who I think is adapting nicely to the life of an invalid, supervises his work and fusses with the bouquet of roses they’re going to place on the graves when they’ve finished. Not, on so many different levels and for so many different reasons, that I’m complaining or anything.

Now that everyone knows where they stand, I no longer feel any jealousy towards Faith and once again view him as nothing more than a friend and an ally. I know it’s fickle, possibly even unbecoming of me, but there you go. It’s just how it is and, liking -- very much so -- the… nest… I’ve made for myself, I’ve even gone so far as to give up trying to constantly justify my feelings.

It just *is*, and things just *are*. End of story.

While admittedly an odd venue for a reunion, we’re all here at the cemetery to follow through with my promise to Yohji about all being by his side when he visited Asuka’s grave -- which just happens to be in the same necropolis as that of my parents’ -- and then, once we’ve finished here, we’re going straight to Narita. Crashers are here to help with the chauffeuring to the airport, while Rosary are sharing our flight into Heathrow before catching another plane to Charles de Gaulle. And, despite the somewhat ghoulish nature of our meeting place, because the rain’s finally stopped and the sun is shining, everyone’s spirits are higher than they’ve been since we first arrived in Tokyo and I’ve seen more smiling faces today than I have in weeks.

Alternatively, the sunlight and lack of rain might have nothing to do with it and everyone’s just happy to be flying out of here. God knows I know *I’m* certainly happy about it. While I was born here, Tokyo is no longer my home and I neither feel any ties to the city nor wish to linger here. 

“I feel as though I should apologize for not having been successful in convincing Persia to join us,” Yuushi states, the mask of indifference he always wears when talking about Omi falling neatly into place as he scans the cemetery, his gaze settling on Ken as he stands talking with Finlay. “I tried, but he informed me that he had a meeting to attend to and was too busy to bother himself with such… trifles…”

“Because no one else is around to say it, allow me to say it on everyone’s behalf,” I mutter, quietly pleased that Omi couldn’t make the effort to say his token farewells as I may just have had to throw caution to the winds and inform him of just how little I happen to think of him if he had. “Takatori-san can kiss my ass. Whatever bond we used to share has now disintegrated over time and we’re finished. Without wanting to be too blunt about it, I hope I never see the officious little prick again.”

Hiding his amusement behind a disapproving look, Yuushi shakes his head and wags his finger at me. “My, what a charming turn of phrase you’ve developed there, Ran. Who should I blame for it, Ken or Yohji?”

“I’d say it was a team effort,” I retort, the memory of Omi scurrying out of Souzou without so much as an individual goodbye to either Ken, Yohji, or myself, still a fresh wound in my mind. “I know this isn’t how you care to speak, Yuushi, but fuck him. I know people have the right to change, but I’m glad we’re free of him. In fact, it’s good riddance.”

Nodding his agreement -- that I just wish he’d raise the courage to voice aloud and break away from Kritiker’s overbearing influence -- Yuushi looks me in the eye and smiles knowingly. “Speaking of change, Ran, I have to confess that you never cease to amaze me,” he murmurs just a tad smugly. “If I was a betting man I would have put my money on you refusing both advice and common sense and going with the third option.”

“That reminds me,” I respond, actually relieved -- despite *really* not wanting to be having another one of these conversations -- that Yuushi’s raised this particular issue. “What the hell *is* this third option you keep blithering on about? I’ve nearly gone mad trying to work out what it could be. You’ll probably laugh at this, but I’ve even been reduced to having to ask the others for their opinions and they wouldn’t have a clue either.”

“You can’t seriously be sitting there telling me it never crossed your mind,” Yuushi replies, his expression one of mute -- ‘you’ve got to be kidding me’ -- surprise. “You’re joking with me, Ran, aren’t you?”

“No, I’m not bloody well joking with you!” Having well and truly had enough of not knowing, I swear he’s going to tell me what his mythical third option is even if I have to shake it out him. “Come on, Yuushi, tell me. If I knew what it was do you think I’d honestly be asking you?”

“Well… No…” Yuushi responds dubiously. “Then again… If you really haven’t been able to work it out for yourself then maybe, proving once and for all that wonders truly never cease, you *didn’t* take it into consideration.”

“Take *what* into consideration?” I grind out, not quite sure whether Yuushi’s *trying* to be obtuse or whether it’s just coming naturally to him. “How many times do I have to tell you? I. Don’t. Know. What. Option. Three. Is.”

Gazing across the lawn to Yohji, Yuushi smiles serenely and places his hand lightly on my thigh. “Option three, my friend, was to choose neither and to leave Krypton Brand,” he murmurs. “I was sure you would have known that.”

Choose… neither? Leave?

“I…” Shit. What an incomprehensible thought.

Staring blankly at Yuushi, I shake my head while struggling to find an adequate response.

Be on my own again? By choice?

“You honestly never considered it, did you?” Yuushi continues softly. “As confusing as it’s all been for you, you never once thought of cutting yourself off and leaving. Again, Ran, you really do constantly amaze me.”

“You’re right,” I whisper, looking around the cemetery and making a point of locating *everyone* -- Yohji, Chloé, Free, Ken, Yuki, Michel -- before shyly glancing at Yuushi. “I never once thought of extricating myself from the mess I’d found myself in by leaving. I just… I suppose you could say I just automatically… defaulted… myself to Yohji and was going to content myself with that…”

“Well, I’m just glad everything worked out for you,” Yuushi replies, giving my thigh a squeeze before taking his hand away and looking at his watch. “As I told you at Souzou, this environment happens to suit you, Ran, and I’d hate to see you lose it. Now, I think the time has come to start rounding everyone up so that we can get to Narita in ample time to book-in both the luggage and the cats.”

“Mmm… You’re probably right,” I murmur, making no attempt to move as Yuushi stands up and smoothes down his coat. “Yuushi… Thank you for taking the time to see us off. It actually means a lot to me.”

“Like we’d honestly be anywhere else,” Yuushi responds, waving at Naru and pointing at his watch. “Besides, there was no way Masato was letting Yohji out of the country before collecting his winnings. Not to mention, given that he was too ill to really talk to at Souzou, I have to confess to really having wanted to check Chloé out…”

“Yuushi!” Laughing, I poke his leg with my foot and shake my head. “Now who’s learning unbecoming habits from team mates, huh? Who put you up to it, hmm? Was it Naru?”

Ignoring both my quip and my question, Yuushi brushes imaginary dirt away from his trouser leg and smiles. “They’d be proud of you, you know…”

“Who? Who’d be proud of me?” I query, puzzled as to who he could possibly be talking about. “Yuushi?”

“Your parents, of course,” Yuushi responds gently, holding my gaze for a moment before turning around and starting to walk back down the path. “Now, don’t forget to keep an eye on the time, Ran, and I shall see you at Narita.”

“Um… Sure…” I mumble, tearing my gaze away from Yuushi’s retreating form and, standing up, slowly gravitating across the grass to my parents’ headstones. My memory now being clear about the desecrated state of the stones during my first visit, I run my hand along the top of the smooth, professionally restored marble and sigh.

While I don’t know -- although it was nice of Yuushi to say it -- whether they’d actually be proud of me or not, what I do know is how hard and how… futile… the past few weeks have been. Even though everything worked out okay in the end, Schwarz and Takeda’s malicious games have taken a high toll and I can’t help but lament the utter pointlessness of it all. All that effort, all the carefully planned and executed head fucks, all for nothing. Given their goals, hardly any of what happened actually needed to occur. Schwarz wanted Faith and Takeda wanted Weiss. Innocent people -- Kettleman, Asuka -- didn’t need to die, the magazine… spread… was little more than a gratuitous act of spite, Schuldig didn’t have to do what he did to Chloé… The list goes on and on.

Still, as it has been known to be said, all’s well that ends… relatively… well.

Keegan’s life not mattering one iota, everyone that counts is still alive and, albeit perhaps in a far more delicate state than when we left, we’re going home. Even Nagi -- not that I can confess to caring all that greatly -- is being given yet *another* chance to prove himself reliable and trustworthy and is going with Rosary to Paris. The lucky boy has even scored himself Chanceaux as a reminder gift of his… adventures… as Mystique stacked on such a -- jealous -- turn at the sight of the kitten that there was just no way we could have taken her back to London with us.

Sighing again, I say a silent goodbye to my parents -- ‘I love you but, Tokyo no longer being my home, I don’t know when I’ll get to see you again’ -- and walk across to join Yohji. Coming to a stop next to him, I place my hand on his arm and, as he turns to face me, smile softly. “Okay?”

“Surprisingly so,” Yohji murmurs, returning my smile and gesturing down at a white porcelain Coalport rose with two gold wedding rings of differing sizes around the stem placed against Asuka’s plain and tasteful tombstone. “Look…”

Although I know the answer without having to ask the question, I voice it anyway, just to be sure. “Chloé?”

Smiling, Yohji nods. “Of course. The rings are ours too. I checked them out and they’re definitely ours. God knows how he managed to get them though…”

“Faith, I suspect,” I reply, shrugging as once again I’m touched by Chloé’s unerring act of *always* doing the right thing. “Don’t forget they were gone for most of yesterday and, when asked, were decidedly coy as to what they’d gotten up to.”

“Mmm…” His smile changing to a happy looking grin, Yohji laughs. “Come to think of it, I don’t know about you, but I shudder to think what those two could get up to if left to their own devices. I mean, combine Chloé’s ideas with Faith’s power and…”

“Then perhaps it’s a good thing it’s not something you currently have to worry about,” Chloé interjects, sidling up behind us and, his stealth act having its usual effect on him, causing Yohji to nearly jump out of his skin.

“Chloé-ki…” Stopping himself from issuing forth with his pet-name for him, Yohji snickers and looks Chloé up and down. “You know, I was talking to Finlay a while ago and he just happened to let slip with your… real… name…”

“Yohji!” Chloé exclaims, looking to me for assistance and laughing when, shaking my head, I casually start to distance myself from the fireworks that I just know are about to take place. “Don’t you…”

“Mmm… I’m thinking it was payback for the fact you told us about his name meaning ‘sunbeam’,” Yohji murmurs, feigning innocence at the effect his little game of name dropping is having. “Ed…”

“Yohji! Don’t you so much as *dream* it!”

“Eddie!”

Oh God… I don’t know what’s funnier. Yohji’s look of glee or Chloé’s look of amused -- but trying very hard not to show it -- horror.

“Yohji! I’m warning you…”

“Yeah, yeah… I know it’s *Edward*, but, what do you think, Aya? There’s just something about *Eddie*. It has a nice ring to it, wouldn’t you agree?” Yohji teases, slinging his arm around Chloé’s shoulders.

“Don’t tell me, let me guess,” I murmur, walking over and, standing on Chloé’s free side, linking my arm with his, “Chloé-kins is suddenly looking like the lesser of two evils…”

“I never thought I’d hear myself saying it,” Chloé smiles, shaking his head in a mock display of long sufferance, “but… yes… I think you may just be right.” Pausing, he gently elbows Yohji in the ribs before relaxing against him and softly kissing his cheek. “Do not, however, think this gives you carte-blanche to use it.”

“Anything you say, Ed… Ooops! Chloé-kins,” Yohji retorts, starting -- with once last glance over his shoulder at Asuka’s grave -- to lead us towards the path and where Ken, Free, Yuki and Michel are waiting for us. “Come on, you two. Let’s go home.”

Yes. Let’s.

Now that everything is back to what passes for normal, let’s go home and get on with our lives.

=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=


	10. Chapter 10

~ Yohji ~

Hearing what I very much hope I’m *not* hearing, I step through the door into the storeroom and, the Godforsaken racket getting louder as I get closer to the shop, come to a stop by the edge of the worktable.

// Guess who’s back, back again, Shady’s back, tell a friend.   
Now everyone report to the dance floor, to the dance floor, to the dance floor, now everyone report to the dance floor.   
Alright stop, pajama time. //

Eminem! 

Worse, Eminem in my *home*!

Aaargh! 

Just what is the world coming to?

“Do you hear that?” I complain, gesturing into the store as Aya walks down the stairs into the storeroom and places yet another box of items to be donated to the cat shelter’s car-boot sale by the pile already stacked near the door. “Eminem! Coming from the store of all places! Is nowhere sacred?”

“He has a new CD out,” Aya replies, the lack of either interest or shock he’s feeling about this fact coming through loud and clear in his voice as he straightens up and stretches. “I know this may come as a surprise to you, Yohji, but that’s what recording artists do. They put a CD out and impressionable members of the public come along and dutifully buy it. It’s just one of those things.” 

“And which impressionable member of this household displayed enough lack of taste to be to the one to go out and buy it?” I mutter, sorely tempted to head straight back outside again for another smoke. “I mean, Eminem… Christ! Is there anything fucking worse?”

“While I can’t think of any examples right off the top of my head, I’m sure that there are,” Aya responds, rubbing the back of his hand across his cheek and subsequently smudging it with dust. “To answer your question though, Yuki bought it at Heathrow while we were waiting for Rosary’s boarding call. I think, and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tease him or give him too much grief about any of this, that meeting Yukio may have had something of an adverse effect on him.”

“But… *Eminem*!” I whine, snatching up a tissue from the cupboard by the sink and gently rubbing it across Aya’s cheek. “Bloody Yukio and his posse of tone deaf homeboys. I’ve got a good mind to ring him up and just let him have it. Honestly, Aya, being made to listen to this shit is like some sort of cruel and unusual punishment. And… And what about Michel, huh? Isn’t he in the store with Yuki? I’m sure this isn’t the sort of… music… he really needs to be listening to.”

“When I passed through the store earlier he was listening to Kylie Minogue on his iPod,” Aya replies, frowning down at the dirt ingrained tissue I hold in my hand, “who, it has to be said, is little better for one’s ears than Eminem is.” 

“Least she looks better,” I respond drily, throwing the tissue in the bin and scowling over my shoulder at the door into the shop. “Oh God, make it stop! I hate Eminem. The mere *thought* of him makes me want to grind my teeth down until there’s nothing left of them. He’s just… Fuck it! I don’t know *what* he is.”

Shaking his head, Aya smiles fondly and begins to walk back over towards the stairs. “Some things just never change,” he murmurs. “While I know it’s not probably something you remember, you’ve *always* hated Eminem. When Yukio and his posse of, back then, wannabe homeboys used to park outside the Dragon’s Tears and blast their music out of their car stereos, you used to behave like a bear with a sore head. Some nights you’d even go storming out the front door and threaten them with a broom. Not, it has to be said, that it ever made any impact on them as they’d just laugh and turn the volume up even higher.”

“The youth of today,” I sigh, following Aya over to the stairs, his little tidbit about my hatred of Eminem apparently being -- just another one of those things -- instinctual not coming as any sort of surprise to me at all. “Oh well, I suppose they have to grow up some time. Actually, there’s a thought… What’s going to happen when, you know, Yuki or… no… probably just Yuki, I suspect, becomes all hormonal and…”

“Yohji!” Aya exclaims, shooting me a -- ‘this is so not a topic I wish to think about’ -- look over his shoulder. “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. Seeing as you’re easily the most… experienced… I’m warning you now though that you’ll most likely be the one on the other side of the bridge waiting for him.”

“Me? Like hell,” I retort, the idea of sitting down and having a man to teenager talk with Yuki striking me as being about as much fun as having open heart surgery performed while not fully anesthetized. “Besides, what’s with that ‘most experienced’ comment anyway? I may just resemble that remark.”

“What are you doing lurking around and bitching about Eminem for anyway?” Aya queries, neatly changing the subject as he walks up the stairs and comes to a stop on the first floor landing. “Have you finished all your cleaning?”

“Slave driver,” I mutter, jogging up the stairs to join Aya. “If you must know I’ve finished our floor and most of the third. In fact, I’ve really only got Chloé’s room to go and was just treating myself to a smoke before tackling it. What about you? Is this floor all done?”

“Nearly,” Aya murmurs, gesturing towards the kitchen. “The living room and the bathroom are done but there’s still a couple of cupboards in the kitchen that I haven’t finished going through. Having already found two fondue sets though, I’m almost wary of what might be waiting behind their closed doors for me. Honestly, the amount of never-before-seen, let alone never *used*, crap in the kitchen is just astronomical. I mean, why the hell would anyone want to *make* ice-cream when they can pick up tubs of it in Safeway? And don’t get me started on the pie-maker, the popcorn maker, and the, get this, *hotdog* maker. It’s just ridiculous.”

Laughing at Aya’s reaction to the kitchen’s hidden stockpile of ‘flavor-of-the-month’ appliances, I shake my head and, reaching out, snag my fingers in the hem of his t-shirt. “Hey, if it makes you feel any better, at least you’re *discovering* things you didn’t know existed,” I reply. “Me, unless you happen to count stumbling upon the fact Ken keeps half of his wardrobe under his bed and Michel has a very bedraggled looking teddy bear hidden behind his pillow, I’m not finding anything of interest at all.”

“And what, pray tell, *were* you hoping to find?” Aya queries, raising his eyebrow and giving me a speculative look. “Don’t forget you’ve been given access to everyone’s bedrooms to *clean*, not snoop.”

“Who said anything about snooping?” I respond lightly, shrugging. “I just thought there was a chance I might have discovered something interesting, that’s all. You know, a hidden bag of pot or perhaps even a carefully stashed collection of porn.”

“Oh.”

Oh *fuck*. It takes both Aya’s blank expression and the hurried step he takes away from my hand to bring my spectacular example of blithe stupidity home to me.

*Porn*. Yeah. Good one. Fucking excellent one in fact.

“It was a joke,” I murmur lamely, quickly closing my hand around Aya’s arm and pulling him back towards me. “An incredibly pathetic and unfunny attempt at a joke at that. I’m sorry, Aya. I didn’t mean anything by it and won’t ever mention it again.”

Sighing, Aya makes no attempt to pull away but nor does he relax as I clumsily wrap my arms around him. “You’re right, it *was* a pathetic and unfunny thing to say,” he mutters, looking up and smiling grimly, “but it doesn’t matter. I know you didn’t mean anything by it.”

“I still feel like a twit for mentioning it in the first place,” I sigh, trying to embrace Aya as, stiffening, he extricates himself from my arms and starts for the kitchen. “Aya! Shit! Come back here. I don’t want you to go off if you’re feeling pissed with me.”

“I’m not feeling pissed at you,” Aya replies, turning to face me as he reaches the kitchen door. “While it’s nothing personal, I simply don’t wish to be touched at the moment and, besides, I need to get on with finishing the kitchen before the people coming to collect the… junk… arrive.”

“But…” Christ! Why’d I even have to open my fucking mouth? “Aya… If you don’t want to be touched because of what I made you remember, I… I’m sorry. Okay? It was stupid of me and…”

“It’s not that,” Aya interrupts, pointing… *pointedly*… towards the stairs that lead to the second floor, his expression unreadable. “I don’t wish to be touched because I’ve been cleaning for over two hours and I believe I smell, that’s all. Please don’t worry, Yohji. I’m not pissed at you. If I was pissed at you you’d know about it. Now, go. In order to concentrate on reopening the shop tomorrow, we want all the cleaning finished today.”

Saluting Aya, I nod, relieved that his issues are more related to personal hygiene than my attack of foot-in-mouth disease, and start to head over to the stairs. “As I said a minute ago,” I mutter, giving him a wave over my shoulder, “slave driver.”

“Sticks and stones,” Aya retorts with a snort as, already feeling well and truly ‘cleaned’ out, I force myself to meander up to the third floor. Although I *still* think it’s a good idea -- the decision we reached last night at the castle to, straight away upon getting back, spring clean the house -- after a floor and a half of dusting and vacuuming and scrubbing, I have to confess to being totally over it. I’m so over it in fact that I almost wish I’d had Ken’s forethought and volunteered to do the courtyard and garage as that way I’d at least have been able to smoke while working my fingers to the bone.

But no. Ken’s got outside and the cars, Michel and Yuki have got the shop and storeroom, Aya’s got the basement and the kitchen, Free’s got the fourth floor and the roof, and, somehow, I managed to score myself floors two and three. *How* exactly I managed this isn’t even something I can recall. Four bathrooms, seven bedrooms, enough carpet to make me view polished floorboards as a *really* good idea, hell, as floors to clean I really lucked out big time. God knows it’s not as though I could have *volunteered* for them.

Mind you… Combining the vague sense of jetlag I was feeling with the fact I was the only one to help KR finish off the bottle of celebratory -- welcome home -- champagne he opened for dinner last night, who knows, perhaps I did put my hand up for them. 

Oh well, whatever. Seeing as I’ve just got Chloé’s room left to go, I’ve nearly finished anyway. Then, once I’m done, I have plans to sit on my ass, preferably with company, and do as little as I can possibly get away with. With careful timing, I may even be lucky enough to avoid Michel’s cat shelter friends when they come to collect the stuff we’re donating to their sale and, subsequently, *won’t* be dragged into helping lug it all out to their truck. Having been present for Michel’s excited -- “Oh my God! We nearly missed the sale. If we hadn’t come back today it would have been too late to donate, and… and… and…” -- reaction to their letter requesting donations, I have to say that I’m also already over the whole ‘clear out and donate’ thing. If I’d had time to get my head around it all then, sure, not a problem. Wanting to clean the house out of unwanted items in less than three hours, *especially* when I think I’m still feeling the after effects of the champagne, is, however, just a bit much.

Retrieving my collection of cleaning products from the third floor bathroom, I walk into Chloé’s room and, the cheery greeting I’d been about to say dying on my lips, frown at the empty -- apart from Mystique, who’s sitting staring at the open laptop as though she’s contemplating writing an email -- bed.

Damn!

Where is he?

“Chloé?” I call out, noticing that the door to the en suite is open and, walking over, tentatively poking my head around it. Finding the room empty, I bite back a sigh and deposit the cleaning products on the vanity unit. The time we spent at the cemetery coupled with the flight to Heathrow having really knocked Chloé about, he should still be resting in his room and I don’t know whether I need to be more annoyed or worried about the fact that he isn’t.

Hoping that he’s not doing anything stupid like trying to help with the tidy up, I shake my head and, knowing that he can’t have got *too* far, start cleaning the en suite. Thankfully, especially given the collection of decorative Egyptian perfume bottles that jostle for space amongst the assortment of toiletries and candles, the vanity is already pretty clean and I’ve just finished giving it a token wipe down when I sense someone walking into the bathroom behind me.

Looking up at the mirror, I see Chloé’s reflection as he hovers in the doorway and, dropping my cloth in the basin, turn around to face him. “Where have you been?” I demand, ignoring the cup he’s holding out towards me and folding my arms across my chest. “You’re supposed to be resting, not… gallivanting around!”

“Gallivanting around?” Chloé echoes, sighing as he walks fully into the bathroom and, with a miffed look shot in my direction, placing his cup on the vanity unit. “I’ve just been for a quick sprint around the block. However did you guess…”

Realizing I’ve -- once again -- clearly said the wrong thing, the annoyance I’d been feeling towards Chloé for worrying me dissipates and leaves me feeling like a prize ass. “Chloé…”

“I wanted a cup of tea, so I went to the kitchen to make it,” Chloé mutters coolly, cutting me off and making to walk back out of the en suite. “Because I knew you were coming, I made you a cup of coffee while I was there. If I’d known you were going to go off at me though then, trust me, I wouldn’t have bothered!”

Oh yeah. I’m going well this afternoon. First I say the wrong thing to Aya and now, wanting to share around my insensitivity equally, I say the wrong thing to Chloé. That’s two for two. I must be on some sort of champagne fuelled roll.

“Fuck! Chloé…” Hurrying after him, I place my hand gently on his shoulder, causing him to come to a stop just by the bed. “I’m sorry. I never meant to go off at you and I thank you for the cup of coffee. It’s just… Well… I suppose I expected to find you in here and when you weren’t I became a little worried.”

Sighing, Chloé’s shoulders slump dejectedly and he lowers his head. “No, it’s not you who should apologize, Yohji, it’s me,” he murmurs softly. “I had no right to get snooty with you like I did and I hope you can forgive me. I… I’m sorry. I’m just sick of feeling tired all the time and I wish I wasn’t so much of a drain on everybody…”

“Oh, hey… Shhh…” Releasing Chloé’s shoulder, I move around in front of him and gingerly wrap my arms around his waist. Unlike Aya, he reacts favorably to this and, with a small sigh, relaxes against me, resting his head against my chest. “I know you’re, well, tired of being tired, but, come on, there’s no need be depressed about it,” I whisper, rubbing my hand along his back. “Think about it. If you were back to full health you’d have to be doing menial labor like the rest of us instead of getting to lounge around ordering the flowers for the shop and resting. So, come on, look on the bright side and cheer up. As for being a drain? Christ. You’re kidding yourself if that’s what you think. We’re all just glad that you’re here and, I know I’m speaking for everyone when I say this, we’ll do whatever it takes, for however *long* it takes, to get you healthy and keep you here.”

So, you know, *there*!

“Aya’s right,” Chloé replies quietly as, clearly comfortable with his position even though I’ve never dared to hold him quite so tightly or, for that matter, for quite this long before, he makes no attempt to squirm away. “You *do* always know the right thing to say.”

Smiling -- thank God, we’re already back on safer ground -- I shake my head and, removing my hand from around his back, lightly stroke his cheek. “Ah, but according to you Aya’s *always* right anyway, and I’m just someone who has to be humored for the sake of keeping the peace,” I tease. “Isn’t that right?”

“Perhaps I’ve been a little harsh on you and you may… sometimes… be right too,” Chloé responds, lifting his head and smiling softly. “You’re wrong on one thing though, and that’s that I do more than humor you. You… You actually mean a lot to me and, I don’t know if I’ve said this to you already or not, but I’m grateful to you for allowing me to stay…”

*Allowing* him to stay? Good grief. Saying it like that makes it sound as though we actually had to sacrifice something in order for… permission… to be granted, when, really, it couldn’t be further from the truth.

“Hey! Screw that ‘allowing’ shit,” I retort, the vehemence in my voice -- or alternatively, base way of speaking -- causing Chloé’s eyes to widen in surprise. “I know you heard everything I said to you in Souzou and now I want you to *believe* it. This is your home and everybody wants you here and… And, fuck! I thought this was behind us and we could just get on with our lives. Chloé… This… doubt, or whatever it is, can’t go on.”

Pulling back from me, Chloé looks me in the eye and cups my chin in the palm of his hand. “I do believe you,” he whispers, “and, like you, I want for everything that happened in Japan to be behind us. I just have to get used…” Trailing off, he plants a light kiss on the tip of my nose before releasing my chin and walking over to the bed. “Never mind, Yohji,” he continues, sitting down on the edge of the mattress and picking up his cup of tea from the bedside table. “Whatever it was I’d been going to say can’t have been of any importance. All that matters is that things have worked themselves out and we’re all… happy… to be here. Now… Go and drink your coffee before it gets cold and I get myself into even more trouble with Aya for daring to venture back to the kitchen in order to get you another.”

“Once was enough, yeah?” I snicker, walking back towards the en suite. “He had a few words to say, I take it.”

“Words, I can deal with,” Chloé sighs, drawing his legs up onto the bed and settling himself against the pillows. “It’s just the look -- which, incidentally, made the one you gave me pale in comparison -- he shot me that I’m a little wary of falling under again. If, in other words, he’d been pleased to see me, he did an excellent job of hiding it.”

My imagination having no difficulties whatsoever in picturing the look Aya would have given Chloé upon finding him -- where he shouldn’t be -- in the kitchen, I pause in the doorway to the bathroom and laugh. “Just because he happened to look at you as though you were a cockroach doesn’t mean that he doesn’t care for you,” I reply. “You know Aya’s a firm believer in a look being worth a thousand words.”

“A… cockroach,” Chloé repeats, nearly choking on the mouthful of tea he’d just taken and making shooing gestures into the en suite. “I hadn’t quite viewed it that way, I must say. Now, on that charming note, I really must insist you return to your cleaning before you find yet another… unique… way to insult me and I’m left with no choice other than to view Aya as by far the lesser of two evils.”

Laughing, I bow grandly and, doing as I’m told, walk into the bathroom. Not wanting the coffee to get any colder than it already is, I pick up the cup and, leaning my back against the vanity unit, bring it up to my lips. As I’d known it would be, the flavor is just right and while I drink it I mentally say yet another heartfelt prayer of thanks for Chloé being both alive and -- where he belongs -- here.

Although it’s a subject I’m tired of wasting copious hours dwelling on, I still can’t think of the fact we nearly lost him, first to the Grim Reaper and then -- granted, while not quite so *permanently* -- to Rosary, without feeling slightly ill.

So close.

We came so -- *too* -- close to losing him and, because the threat was so very real, I still sometimes feel as though I should pinch myself in order to verify that things are indeed back to how I want them to be. He’s *here*, I can talk to him and touch him and, most importantly of all, I can continue to spend time with him.

If Faith hadn’t beaten off all the contenders -- and God knows the field was a tough one -- to claim the Martyr’s Crown for himself… If Aya hadn’t listened to Faith, then…

Stopping myself from following this done to death line of thought, I finish my coffee and, placing the cup out of harm’s way near the basin, pick up my cloth and go back to my cleaning.

As has been said so many times recently, all that matters is the here and now. The hard times, the doubt, and the seemingly never ending stream of difficult conversations are all a thing of the past and…

We’re home, nothing else has to matter a damn, and, yep, life does indeed go on.

Aya, proving, I swear, once and for all that he’s the master of acclimatizing himself to his surroundings, is already firmly entrenched in behaving as though nothing out of the (extra)ordinary -- ‘we went for a trip to Tokyo and, while we there, some, well, *things*, happened, but it’s okay ‘cos we’re back home now’ -- ever happened. Common sense having been so succinctly rammed into his, at times, incredibly thick skull by Faith, he said his piece in the nick of time to Chloé and, voila, just like that all my concerns, *everything*, was sorted.

Go Aya. Honestly. 

What I think makes his… skill… even more astonishing is that he doesn’t think anything of it. He, internally, of course, frets and, in his mind anyway, makes the hard decisions because he believes they’ll be in everyone’s best interests -- regardless of whether it’s what he himself wants -- but, once something happens to set him straight, he’ll put it all behind him without so much as a second thought and simply get on with things. Personally, not that I’m complaining or anything, I find it quite amazing.

Take the whole Chloé and Rosary saga. Four days ago, Aya -- so long as he didn’t think anyone was watching him -- was glowering at Faith as though he pretty much viewed him as the embodiment of everything that was wrong in the world. The second he knew that Faith wasn’t the threat his subconscious perceived him to be though… Well. Again, voila, just like that Faith was instantly restored to friend status. It then didn’t even bother him that, during the interim time between everything being sorted out and the flight out of Narita, Chloé spent most of his time with Faith and the other members of Rosary. Hell, he was so unbothered by it that he even went so far as to chastise me when I had the nerve to have a little complain to him about it.

Now though, we’re home and Aya, having accepted what he has, is simply going about his business. Although he hasn’t said anything, I take his almost blasé attitude to mean he’s happy with things. He’s certainly been sleeping better since Chloé said he was staying and I have to say now that I hope never to see a repeat of those long sleepless nights that led up to that moment. As nights to forget go those are definitely up there. Aya would pretend to be asleep on his side and I’d lie on my back staring at the ceiling and trying desperately to trick my mind into fixating on the thought of the cigarette I was denying it as opposed to any of the other, far more valid points of confusion that were preying on me. Despite having gotten hardly any sleep, seeing the sun seep through the cracks in the drapes was actually a relief as it meant another night was finally over and we could at least get up and, for the sake of Yuki and Michel, force ourselves to concentrate on putting on a brave, unbothered face.

But, hey, it’s all in the past now. Aya’s happy, I’m happy, and Chloé, lingering invalid status aside, I’m fairly confident is happy too. Ignoring the fact he’s still currently managing to sleep more of the day away than Mystique, he’s, just like Aya, behaving as though nothing has changed at all and -- because it works for me -- I’m choosing to take this as a good sign.

Mind you, while it could possibly be as a result of all the cleaning products I’ve been liberally spraying around this afternoon, I’m seeing good signs everywhere at the moment.

Regardless of both the teasing comments I sometimes make and Aya’s defensive reaction to what I’m sure he views as offensive to all concerned, none of this is about sex. I think Aya and Chloé are both beautiful and if it was ever on offer I’d hardly -- have to think about my answer -- say no, but, really, that’s not what it’s about. Ken thinks I’m mad taking on not one but *two* emotionally damaged -- and I’m using his exact word here -- ‘victims’ and that I’m kidding myself if I think I’m ever going to get anywhere with them, but he’s got it all wrong. If I wanted to roll around in a bed with two guys I’d go to a club, make my selection, and just do it.

But it’s not about sex. Sex is available everywhere and, as exceptional as it may be while it lasts, ultimately it’s meaningless. And, given everything that’s happened to me in the past two years, that just isn’t what I want.

Aya and Chloé… 

I’m just so comfortable with the pair of them and believe that we get on so incredibly well together that this set up makes *sense* to me. Because I now know they’re as similar as I’d always suspected them to be, they can do whatever they want together with my blessings. While I’d already been leaning in this direction, I’ve now accepted I harbor no jealousy towards Chloé at all. How could I? He’s as innocent a party in the hand fate’s dealt us as Aya and myself are. If I could remember how much, how obsessively the…old me… used to love Aya, perhaps I’d feel differently, but I can’t. Unable to find fault in my current life, I’m not even sure I’d want to even if I could. Aya may be ‘old’ and Chloé ‘new’ but, in a sense, it’s as though I know them equally.

And, yes, this is something I’m content with.

Cocking my head to one side, I peer appraisingly into the shower and, not finding any sign of the… slime… I found in the shower Ken shares with Yuki, quickly make the decision that it doesn’t need cleaning. This done, I place my collection of cloths and cleaning products in a neat pile on the edge of the vanity, wash my hands and, after drying them on the hand towel, meander back into the bedroom.

“Whatever you happen to be thinking, I’d appreciate it if you’d keep it to yourself,” Chloé murmurs, glancing up from the contents of the black leather folder he’s got spread out on the bed in front of him. “I’m not tired enough to sleep and I *am* resting. So there.”

“Thanks for that,” I reply, a sinking feeling settling over me as I have a quick look around Chloé’s cluttered and very much ‘lived in’ bedroom. If by chance he, or anyone else -- read, *Aya* -- expects me to dust everything in here then, so much for my hope of sitting on my ass doing nothing, I’m going to be here for the rest of the day. “Ah… Where do you want me to start?” I query glumly, placing a tentative hand on the dresser.

Patting the edge of the mattress, Chloé shakes his head and smiles. “I don’t,” he responds, gesturing me over. “No offence, but I want you upsetting my carefully arranged belongings even less than you do. While you may not think it, I happen to have a pretty good idea of where everything is and I’d like to keep it that way.”

“You’re kidding me, right?” I laugh, looking at the random pieces of jewelry and other, no doubt, handy and meaningful bits and pieces that are scattered all over the top of the dresser and, well, failing to see any order to them whatsoever. “Hey, don’t forget I’ve seen you ferret, with a perplexed expression on your face, I might add, through these piles before.”

“And don’t *you* forget that I always find what I’m looking for,” Chloé replies, returning all his pieces of paper and what looks to be a number of glossy photographs to his folder and closing it. “Now, unless you really are anxious to continue cleaning, would you like to see what I’ve got Aya for Christmas?”

Christmas? Dear God. I could have sworn we’ve only just had Halloween. My… How time flies when you’re being dragged through a ‘try before you buy’ tour of hell.

“Christmas?” I groan, wandering over to the bed and gingerly perching myself on the edge of it. “How the hell can you be thinking of Christmas already?”

“Given that obtaining this was reliant on Faith’s participation, I had to get it while we were in Tokyo,” Chloé replies, shrugging as he slides a picture out of the folder and carefully, so as not to stain it with fingerprints, holding it towards me. “When you look at it, I’m sure you’ll know why.”

Taking the photograph, I look down it and, as a lazy grin stretches across my lips, shake my head in amazement. “You… Shit, Chloé. How do you do it, huh?” I ask, balancing the picture on the palm of my head, my eyes glued to the image of long forgotten innocence forever captured in it. “This… My God… He’ll freak.”

“Hopefully in a good way,” Chloé murmurs softly, placing his folder on the bedside table and resettling himself so that he’s sitting cross-legged with his back against the headboard. “As for how I did it? Well, really, it was Faith who did most of it. I may have been able to fob my way into their archives but with Faith’s help it took next to no time and we were in and out within a couple of minutes. As you can see, it was taken at a bank sanctioned family picnic day. Do… Do you think he’ll like it?”

“Do I think he’ll like it?” I echo, looking up from the photo of a young Aya sitting on a red checked picnic rug with his parents and sister and gazing across at Chloé with what I just know has to be a dull expression of astonishment on my face. “Of course he’ll like it! I mean, how could he not? This… Hell. It’s incredible, Chloé, really incredible. You sure know how to do the right thing by people. It’s like… I don’t know… a gift or something.”

“If you know and care about the person, it’s easy,” Chloé whispers, taking the photo out of my hand and resting it on his knee. “Perhaps… Would you like to be the one to give it to him? All I want is for him to have it and it wouldn’t bother me in the slightest to give it to you first.”

“It mightn’t bother you, but it would bother me,” I reply, touched by Chloé’s offer but at the same time wanting to nip it in the bud quick smart. “Regardless of Faith’s involvement, it was your idea, your… *kindness*… and you’ve got to be the one to give it to him.”

“I…” Nodding slowly, Chloé reaches out and places his hand over mine as it rests on the mattress. “Then I must insist you come with me to the framers and choose the right frame for it. That way it can still be from both of us.”

“I’m happy to help pick a frame, but…”

“Ah! We’ll continue this conversation later,” Chloé interrupts, hurriedly lifting his hand from mine and slipping the photo back in the folder as, Tantomile, her tail held erect with intent, prowls into the room and promptly jumps onto the bed.

“Huh? What?” I grunt, puzzled. “Chloé? Why can’t we finish…”

“Because I had Tantomile on watch duty,” Chloé states in a whisper, cutting me off again and, because the look on her face indicates it was clearly expected of him, scratching Tantomile under the chin. “Trust me. You’ll see in… Five… Four… Three… Two…”

Arriving in the doorway with perfect, dare I say choreographed by higher beings timing, Aya walks into the room and shoots me a pointed look. “Good to see you you’re still hard at work,” he comments just a tad sarcastically, turning his unimpressed gaze on Chloé. “As for you, don’t encourage him. He’s perfectly capable of slacking off on his own without any help from you.”

“If you must know,” Chloé murmurs sweetly, giving me a wink, “I had to beg and plead with him to put down his duster and leave things in here exactly as they are. He was *adamant* that he had to see his task through but, when he saw how distressed I was becoming at the thought of him pawing his way through my things he really had no choice but to respect my wishes and bow down gracefully.”

Smirking, Aya walks further into the room and stops by the foot of the bed. His delusion of suffering from pungent body odor having gotten the better of him, his hair is damp from a shower and the clothes he’s wearing are different to those he got dressed in at the castle this morning. In his arm, and this leads me to believe he’s thinking of going out somewhere, he’s carrying a black woolen coat that, as he looks from Chloé to me and back again, he drops onto the mattress. “You really are so full of it at times,” he smiles. “Sob story, however, accepted. If I had a… storage system… like yours I probably wouldn’t want anyone interfering with it either. Now, hilarity duly dispensed with, how are you feeling?”

“Like, if you must know, I’m already sick to death of the sight of my room,” Chloé responds with a sigh. “Other than that I’m just… peachy. Nothing in particular aches and, while I *know*, I’m meant to be resting, I’m not tired enough to need a sleep.” Pausing, he sits up a little straighter and flashes a bright smile at Aya. “Must have been the cup of tea. See? I told you I needed it.”

“In that case,” Aya murmurs, sitting down on the edge of the bed and stroking Tantomile’s back as she undulates over to greet him, “how would you feel about going for a drive to the local park? While I’m yet to decide whether I’ll allow you out of the car or not, I *am*, however, willing to let you out of the house.”

“Hear that, Chloé?” I mutter, laughing at Aya’s odd, not to mention somewhat cryptic, choice of words. “With an offer like that how could you possibly contemplate refusing?”

“Don’t worry, given how bored I already feel I’d probably view a drive down to the local petrol station as a good idea,” Chloé replies drily, looking at Aya expectantly. “Well? What’s with suddenly wanting to go down to the park?”

Sighing, Aya gazes down at his knees and shrugs. “I thought, if the local soccer team were practicing there, that it might be good for Ken,” he replies, sighing. “He… He needs a diversion and I thought having the opportunity to show off in front of those kids might cheer him up. Personally, I’m in no great rush to see the park, but…”

“I think it’s a great idea,” I interject, shifting down to the foot of the bed and lightly placing my hand on Aya’s shoulder. “Thinking of Ken like that, hey, you really are a man of surprises.”

“No I’m not,” Aya responds, frowning over his shoulder at me. “You’re the one that’s going to go tell him we’re going for a drive to the park, not me. It’ll sound better coming from you as he’s bound to think it’s your idea anyway.”

“Hey!” I laugh. “That’s a cop out and you know it! It’s your idea and I think you should be the one to go and share it with him.”

Crawling down the mattress to join us at the foot of the bed, Chloé places a hand on each of our thighs and, flicking his hair back out of his eyes, smiles. “And what I can’t help but think,” he murmurs, “is just how *great* it is to be home.”

~*~*~*~*~

“Have you got all the bags?” Aya queries as, having finished paying the driver, he stands back from the cab. “If, by chance, you haven’t, I’m telling you now that it’ll be your job to ensure replacements are bought for everything you’ve lost because, as of now, I’m officially becoming a hermit until Boxing Day.”

“When you say it like that I almost get the impression that you’re just planning on resting so you can regain your full strength and hit the post-Christmas sales with a vengeance,” I tease, casting one last cursory glance around the cab’s back seat before, content that I’ve got everything, shutting the door with my hip and staggering onto the sidewalk.

“Mmm… And your comment was actually funny,” Aya shoots back, scowling as he picks up his Harrods’ bags. “Honestly! How can anyone in their right mind find shopping a… pleasurable… experience. Especially at Christmas! My God. It’s like an exercise in masochism.”

Gazing at Aya’s five bags with envy, I struggle over picking up my collection of numerous and overflowing bags and shrug. “Chloé likes it well enough,” I offer, feeling like an overworked packhorse and hoping the cab driver was right when he said the pub was just around the corner.

“Chloé has his own problems,” Aya mutters, frowning at my load of plastic shopping bags but making no move to take any off me to lighten my load. “Although you’d think I’d have enough reasons for hating Keegan already, I’m now pissed at him for being the cause of Chloé’s weakness and, subsequently, making me do all this Godforsaken shopping. Personally, if I had my way I’d just postpone Christmas until Chloé was well enough to do it all himself.”

Aya, it has to be said, for all his determination and stamina, is not a shopper. In fact, after having to put up with him whining in my ear all day about how horrific the experience is, I don’t think it would be too much of a stretch to say he positively loathes it. Nothing about today has pleased him. Not the crowds of shoppers running around like headless chickens in the pursuit of the perfect gift, not the harassed and, more often than not, incredibly rude shop assistants, not the highly specific items contained on Michel’s list of desired Christmas decorations, hell, even the lunch we had at what I thought was quite a respectable restaurant managed to offend him on some sort of deeply personal level.

Watching him out glare one officious looking shop assistant in Harrods amused me though. As did the way he responded to the way the idiot behind the counter in HMV spoke to him -- loudly and slowly -- by momentarily losing the ability to speak a word of English and consequently holding the queue up for close to a quarter of an hour. I’m not going to tell him this, mind you, but watching him in action pretty much made my day.

Trying hard not to laugh at Aya’s shop-’til-you-drop inspired petulance, I start to walk down the street to the corner. “Come on, Aya, cheer up,” I murmur, snickering. “You’ve survived the perils of Oxford Street again and it’s now all over.”

“Until someone decides we’ve missed something,” Aya sighs, trailing along behind me. “Oh, and have I mentioned already that I’m not particularly wanting to spend the evening in some grotty pub either? I mean, talk about a perfect end to a perfectly crappy day.” Pausing, he sighs again. “Of all the places Ken could have chosen, why’d he have to pick here? I know Mihirogi is wanting us to integrate ourselves into every day English life, but, really, does that have to mean we need to… pass time… in a pub called The Dog And Gun?”

“Maybe it won’t be as bad as you’re expecting it to be,” I murmur, switching random bags from hand to hand in the hope of balancing out my load. “Who knows, it might even be nice. But, hey, whatever. I don’t know about you but the sooner I put these stupid bags down and have a drink the better.”

“I bet Ken’s going to get drunk,” Aya responds glumly, conveniently glossing over my sage words of hope. “I can see it now. If there’s a jukebox he’ll try and encourage the beer-swilling and dart-playing locals into a spot of karaoke and, when that fails, things will probably deteriorate to the point of a brawl breaking out. We’ll be lucky to make it through the evening unscathed.” 

Glancing over my shoulder, I laugh at Aya’s miserable expression and shake my head. “Who needs Free and his cards when we’ve got you, huh? I mean, you’re our very own Miserable Meg…”

“It’s Mystic Meg, not…” Narrowing his eyes as he realizes the joke I’d made at his expense, Aya gives me a sour look. “Very funny,” he mutters, catching up with me and digging his elbow into my ribs. “What I don’t get is how you can still be in such a reasonable mood. Come on, you can’t stand there and say in all honesty that you’ve had a good time today.”

Accepting that issuing forth with a blithe comment along the lines of everyday being a good day so long as he’s by my side would probably result in yet another dig in the ribs, I smile and shrug. “I’ve certainly had worse days,” I murmur simply. 

“Hmm…” While not exactly looking convinced, Aya’s expression softens slightly and, as he steps around the corner, the first smile I’ve seen from him all day appears on his face. “Look! There’s Chloé,” he exclaims, his sense of relief at seeing his friend as obvious as it is vaguely amusing. Although I could be wrong, I have this feeling that despite being -- in a tenuous way -- half the cause of his current mood, that Aya views Chloé as some sort of oasis of peace and calm in a world suffering a severe case of Festive Madness.

Well, either that or, blaming me for the fact it took nearly forty minutes to get out of the candle shop in Covent Garden -- that *I* wanted to go to even though I should have *known* it was going to make us late -- he’s just so desperate for a change in company that he even would have expressed delight at spotting Ken.

Poor Aya. Really. While he or she may very well be out there somewhere, I’ve never met a person more designed for internet shopping than he is. How he manages to ever buy clothes escapes me, it really does.

“Ten points for observation,” I reply facetiously, lifting my left arm, the one with the *least* amount of bags weighing it down, in greeting as Chloé turns to face us. Leaning against a wall covered in brightly colored fly posters advertising a string of upcoming tour dates for the band Franz Ferdinand, he looks about as far removed from his somewhat dingy surroundings as is conceivably possible and I can’t help but smile at the uniquely familiar sight he paints. 

Wearing his Gaultier coat, the one he bought in Paris, over black leather pants and, what looks from here to be a brilliant white dress shirt, it’s doubtful he could have put less effort into following Mihirogi’s instructions to ‘blend in’ if he’d actually tried. Dark circles under his eyes and sickly pallor aside, he still looks good though and, like Aya, I’m glad to see him. When we’d left this morning it hadn’t been known whether he’d be feeling well enough to join us and I’m pleased not only that he’s here but also that his recovery is still coming along nicely.

“Ah! I don’t think so,” Aya mutters, shoving, without warning, his bags at me and, as I fumble over keeping them from dropping, taking off at a fast pace towards Chloé.

Confused -- he doesn’t think *what* exactly -- I stop to rearrange my bags and, watching Chloé as he brings a lit cigarette to his lips, have to stifle a laugh. Silly, silly me. Really, I should have known.

Reaching Chloé, Aya snatches the smoke from his fingers and, his expression one of disgust, grinds it out under his heel. “How many times have I told you that you’re not to smoke these damn things?” he demands, roughly searching through Chloé’s coat for the offending pack of cigarettes as Chloé watches him with a look of fond amusement in his eyes. “I understand that they’re… addictive… but you’ve got to stop. *Particularly* while you’re still recovering.”

“You know, a simple hello would have sufficed,” Chloé murmurs, reaching his gloved hand into his pocket and pulling the pack of smokes out. Dropping it into Aya’s waiting palm, he sighs melodramatically and rolls his eyes. “Here. Happy now?”

“Happy? Aya?” I snort, joining them as Aya, not sure what to do with them now that he’s got them, glares down at the cigarettes. “You’ve got to be freakin’ kidding me. Whine, whine, whine… That’s all he’s done all day. It’s like he’s channeling the spirit of Scrooge or someone.”

“Bah humbug,” Aya mutters, shrugging as he slips the cigarettes into one of my bags. “It’s horrific out there, Chloé, it really is,” he continues, glancing a little further down the street to the -- decidedly in need of a fresh paint job and, quite frankly, questionable looking -- Dog And Gun. “You’ve just got no idea, but… Never mind. I’m sure Yohji’s sick of my whining, so, what about you, have you got any news to share?”

“News?” Chloé echoes, following Aya’s line of sight to the pub and shrugging gracefully. “Well, let’s think… Okay. Would you believe in the ten minutes I’ve been standing here that no less than six people have asked whether I happened to be lost? Oh. And then there were the two who felt as though it was their civic duty to inquire as to whether I perhaps needed to see a doctor. Kind of them, no?”

“Hey, look on the bright side. At least they didn’t attempt to mug you,” I reply, feeling one of the bags slowly beginning to slip from my grasp and indulging in a quick flurry of juggling-like activity to keep it from falling. “Shit! Come on, Aya. I know you hate the sight of the damn things but do you possibly think you could give me a hand here?”

“I’ll take some if you like,” Chloé offers, reaching out his hand for a bag only to have Aya swiftly bat it away.

“I’ll take them,” Aya states matter-of-factly, snatching back his Harrods’ bags and shooting Chloé what I take to be a warning look. “*You* should still be resting. Actually, what are you even doing out here anyway? You should be inside in the warm.”

“What am I doing out here?” Chloé repeats, winking at me as he helps himself to one of my bags. “If you must know, along with providing a cause for concern for the charming locals, I’ve been standing here getting propositioned.”

Frowning, Aya refrains from wrestling the HMV bag -- carrying, oh, all of two CDs in it -- away from Chloé and, cocking his head to one side, looks at him blankly. “Propositioned? What do you… mean… propositioned?”

“It was quite… heart warming… actually,” Chloé replies with a laugh as he starts to lead the way towards The Dog And Gun. “There I was, standing on a street corner and minding my own business, when this delightful individual wearing -- I suspect, the fruits of his latest ram raiding expedition -- a reasonably tasteful Hugo Boss suit over an Adidas t-shit that, believe it or not, I don’t think Ken actually has, came up to me and politely asked whether I’d blow him for a tenner. It was, as I’m sure you can imagine, something of an incredible boost to my ego.”

Laughing, both at Chloé’s choice of words and the look of contempt on Aya’s face, I catch up with Chloé and give him a gentle bump with my hip. “You declined his kind offer, I take it?” I query teasingly.

“Hell no,” Chloé retorts, smirking. “Given that it was the best offer I’ve had in months, how could I possibly have refused?”

“Chloé!” Aya exclaims, his eyes widening in shock as he walks along on Chloé’s other side. “That’s not funny.”

“Perhaps not, but I think your reaction made up for it,” Chloé replies, placing his arm around Aya’s shoulders and giving him a quick hug. “Of course I said no! In fact, I actually replied with a few less than polite phrases in Romanian that, before you ask, no, I’m not going to either repeat *or* translate for you. Too drunk or, alternatively, stupid, to ascertain he was being insulted, he merely laughed though and smacked me on the arm before continuing to weave his way up the street. If you want to meet him for yourself he’s probably passed out in a gutter somewhere and shouldn’t be too hard to find.”

“I think I can live without the thrill,” Aya mutters drily. “Yohji? What about you?”

“Maybe later,” I reply, thankful that we’re finally about to enter the pub as I swear my fingers are becoming numb from the weight of the bags. “Who knows, perhaps after I’ve had a few drinks I might be hit by the need to find him and make him the same offer he made Chloé.”

“I’m sure the two of you will be very happy together,” Aya responds, coming to a stop in front of the door into the pub and peering at it dubiously. “Incidentally, Chloé, you still haven’t answered my question as to what you were doing loitering on a street corner.”

“You’ll see when we get inside,” Chloé sighs, placing his hand on the door and starting to slowly push it open. “While the… ambience… is a little… rough, it’s more Ken I’m thinking we may have to avoid. Before I left to have a smo… ah… get a breath of fresh air, he’d managed to gulp down three ciders in twenty minutes. So, yeah… You may want to take that as a warning.”

“I’m telling you now, if the word karaoke comes out of his mouth at any time this evening I’m getting up and walking out,” Aya replies, echoing Chloé’s sigh. “Just… Damn him! I know he’s been hurt by Omi’s dismissal but, for God’s sake, he’s got to put it behind him and move on. While I don’t know about you, I’m not sure I can take much more of his moping.”

Holding the door open, Chloé steps into the pub and waits for us to follow him. “His wounds are still fresh,” he murmurs quietly, letting the door go as Aya and I join him on the threadbare red and gold carpet. “They just need time to heal over, that’s all. Perhaps tonight may even help him.”

“All tonight’s going to give him is a hangover and, depending on the quality of the people he antagonizes, possibly a black eye,” Aya mutters, the same aloof looking mask he’d been wearing while dealing with all the shop assistants slipping over his face as he gazes around the pub’s interior. “Oh God… I should have known there’d be a reason as to why he chose this particular hole.”

“Oh… I thought everyone knew already,” Chloé replies, once again leading the way as he slips through the crowd of drinkers gathering by the bar towards the back booth where both Free and Ken are already sitting. “Sorry. If I’d known you were having a dense moment I would have made a point of sitting you down and explaining it all to you. The Dog And Gun, as you can now see, is, I suppose you’d say, a *football* orientated pub. The owner, well, I *think* it’s the owner, although I have to confess to not really having been listening to Ken’s prattling on as we drove here, used to play for England at some stage.”

Looking at both the collection of framed black and white team photographs lining the dark wood paneled walls and the glass cabinet by the bar containing a tarnished array of medals and trophies, I wonder if the pub’s owner played for England back before they -- to put it bluntly -- sucked and am about to ask Chloé whether he knows the answer when, not looking where he’s going, a man lumbers in front of me. Carrying five pints of lager in his hands and looking resplendent in a white and red Umbro canvas jacket -- bearing the embroidered team emblem of his beloved England -- that would easily make a tent for a number of not-necessarily-small children, he snorts his annoyance at finding me in his way and gives me the piggy-eyed equivalent of a death glare.

Used to the intense -- ‘die, and die *now*’ -- wattage of Aya’s death glares, I can’t say the man’s unhappiness at my presence makes any great impact on me whatsoever and I stare back at him impassively. I *know*, given that while he’s about Free’s height he’d have to be easily twice his weight, that he could squash me like a bug, but, really, I can’t say I care all that much. If he’d been looking where he was going in the first place we wouldn’t be having this standoff and I fail to see why I should cower to the lout.

Leaning forward unsteadily, the man peers at me closely and, to my surprise, grins. “Sorry, mate,” he beams, showering me in lager scented breath as he staggers back to let me pass. “Can’t a been lookin’ where I was a goin’ now, can I?”

“Er…” Not sure of how I should reply, I smile cautiously and try to casually look past the man’s bulk to see if either Chloé or Aya have noticed I’m no longer behind them yet.

“Ah! Shit, mate,” the man exclaims, shaking his head as what I hazard a guess passes for an apologetic expression settles over his flushed face. “You no speaka English, right?”

“Er…” Seeing as it appears neither Aya nor Chloé -- given that they’re now standing by the table smirking back at me -- are giving any indication of wanting to come to my rescue, I decide that the only way to extricate myself from my new friend’s company is to pander to racial stereotypes and quickly put on a show of politely bowing.

“Aw, come on, mate, there’s no need for that,” the man mutters, sounding embarrassed by my display as he takes another step back. “Go on, go join your friends. Oh, and hey, I hope you enjoy your time here in jolly old England.”

“Sank you, sank you,” I murmur, bowing a few more times for good measure before scurrying past him and making my way over to the table. Nodding a greeting to Ken and Free, I place my bags on an empty chair and give both Aya and Chloé a pointed look. “Thanks for coming to my assistance, guys,” I drawl. “It was appreciated.”

“Seeing as you appeared to be making friends,” Chloé replies, shrugging out of his coat and carefully placing it over the bags I’d just placed on the chair, “we didn’t want to interrupt. Besides, given his size, if you must know, I was standing here thanking God that you were the one he lumbered in front of and not me.”

“I’ll remember that next time you want saving when Mrs Richardson comes into the shop and starts telling you about her granddaughter,” I reply, glancing over my shoulder and, finding the man gesturing at me as he stands with his similarly sized and clad friends, giving him a little wave before quickly turning back around and returning my attention to Chloé. “You know, the one I swear she’d love to marry you off to and who, having heard so much about you from her grandmother, is probably sitting at home right now planning the wedding cake.”

Wrinkling his nose, Chloé slips into the booth and seats himself next to Free. “Have you seen her?” he queries. “Mrs Richardson brought in a picture of her one day and, honestly, she’s got the face of a horse, an *unattractive* horse at that. Now, I’m sure she’s a lovely woman and would probably make someone… somewhere… a wonderful wife but, I’m sorry, I think I’d rather take my chances with your new friend, the Umbro Man, over there.”

“You have no sense of adventure,” I laugh, digging my wallet out of my pocket and gesturing at the bar. “Now, who’d like a drink, my shout?”

Stashing his bags under the designated ‘storage’ chair, Aya settles himself in the booth next to Chloé and, after a few seconds of staring glumly at the bar, shakes his head. “I’m fine, thank you. I don’t want anything for now.”

“C’mon, Aya, live a little,” Ken replies, finishing his cider and, pushing his chair back, jumping to his feet. “A glass of wine wouldn’t kill you.”

“While normally I’d agree with you,” Chloé murmurs, taking his gloves off and placing them on the table, “I’m not entirely certain the sewer water they’d be attempting to pass off as wine here would be the best place for Aya to begin his drinking career.”

“Who said anything about wanting a drinking career?” Aya protests, picking up the cardboard coaster advertising Guinness from the table in front of him and spinning it between his fingers. “I’m fine, honestly.” 

Knowing better than to waste my breath on trying to get Aya to change his mind, I glance at Chloé and repeat my gesture of waving in the direction of the bar. “Chloé? What about you, can I tempt you with a drink?”

“Ken, you’ve already been to the bar, do you know if they’ve got any decent scotch or…”

“Whether they do or don’t,” Aya interrupts, dropping the coaster and giving Chloé a disapproving look, “you’re not having any. Don’t forget you’re still on medication and that you’re not supposed to drink.”

“But…”

“No! You’re not drinking until you’ve finished your pills and that’s all there is to it,” Aya states, looking up at me as Free tries to hide his amused smile behind his glass of stout. “Yohji, I’ve changed my mind and would like a glass of lemonade. One for Chloé too, if you don’t mind.”

“Hey, given that it’s a cheap round, I don’t mind at all,” I respond, grinning as, giving up, Chloé slumps back against the booth and folds his arms across his chest. “Don’t worry, Chloé-kins, when you’ve finished with the medication you and I will go out without Aya and you can drink whatever you want. Hell, given that I’m sure it’d be right up your alley, I’ll even find a place that sells Absinthe for you.”

“Oh, I know where they sell that already,” Chloé replies, smiling as he unfolds his arms and surreptitiously, in a ‘you’re forgiven for bossing me’ gesture, rubs his shoulder up against Aya’s. “The real stuff too. While it’s an acquired taste, it’s one I’d love to share with you, so be warned, it’s a date I plan to hold you to.”

“Sucked in,” Ken mutters, tugging on my arm as, his expression softening, Aya shakes his head and smiles at Chloé. “Come on, I need another drink before I dehydrate and pass out.”

“Shit, and we couldn’t have that now, could we?” I respond, glancing at Free as, clearly determined, Ken starts to pull me towards the bar. “Free? Can I get you anything?”

“Not at the moment, thank you,” Free murmurs. “Perhaps later.”

“Okay. Well, just let me…”

“You heard him. He’s fine,” Ken declares, cutting me off and, something about being surrounded by so much football memorabilia having so obviously gone to his head, all but bouncing over to the bar. “Isn’t this place cool, huh? See that ball in the cabinet by the television? Well that’s one of the balls that was used in the sixty-six World Cup. And that framed strip behind the bar, that was worn by…”

Tuning Ken’s fan-inspired spiel out in favor of concentrating on ordering my drinks, I step up to the bar and wait to be served. Not seeing any signs to indicate that the Dog And Gun serve any -- ‘poncy, foreign, designer’ -- beer not made in the UK, I decide to live life dangerously and order whatever beer it is they’ve got on tap and have just reached this quite possibly questionable conclusion when the woman behind the bar comes over to serve me. 

“So, love, what’ll-it-be?” she grins, leaning on the bar’s wooden counter and giving me a pretty much unrestricted and very much unneeded view of her wrinkly chest as it struggles to be contained within her skintight, hot pink top. With her bleached blonde hair -- which looks to be both the color and texture of straw, *thinning* straw, even -- garish red lipstick, and ‘mutton dressed up as lamb’ style of dress, the woman looks as though she’s just stepped straight off the set of one of those terribly depressing English soaps and, somewhat taken aback by this, I just stare at her in amazement.

“Love? You speak English, right? If you don’t, well, sorry, you’ll ‘ave to point as I don’t know a word of any of them oriental languages. Oh, ‘ang on, sushi, that’s Japanese, right? Not that I suppose that ‘elps much.”

“I…” Embarrassed at being rendered dumb by a caricature from Eastenders brought to life, I flash one of my most disarming smiles at her. “It’s all right, I speak English,” I murmur, dragging my gaze away from some of the most over-tanned and leathery looking skin I’ve ever seen and placing my wallet on the bar. “Now, could I please have two lemonades, a… ah… I suppose… pint of beer and…” Glancing around for Ken, I find him with his face pressed up against the glass cabinet containing the football and shrug. “And a cider, thank you.” 

If it’s not what he wants then, given that he didn’t say anything before abandoning me for an inanimate object, that’s just too bad.

“My! Aren’t you a clever chicken,” the woman beams, reaching across the bar and giving me a friendly pat on the arm. “Never would ‘ave thought it to look at you, but you’ve got a good ‘andle on the language. Now, you just wait right there and I’ll get your drinks for you.”

“Um… Thanks,” I mumble, watching the woman as she bustles off. Interestingly, despite calling me chicken and all but directly insulting my -- intelligence -- appearance, I don’t find anything condescending about the woman’s manner at all and, as I lean on the bar waiting for my drinks, I decide that’s probably just how she speaks to everyone.

Chicken though… Shit. If I’ve ever been called a chicken before I thankfully can’t remember it.

Ken still doing the sad fan appreciation thing with all the memorabilia scattered around the place, I glance around me, casually checking out the rest of the pub’s clientele. While -- a little rough around the edges -- unlikely to gain entrance to any of Chloé or Aya’s preferred… establishments, they seem an okay enough bunch and, relieved that Ken hadn’t inadvertently taken us to a Hell’s Angels club, start to relax. In one corner, dressed in soccer tops or jackets with sporting labels emblazoned on them, a group of middle-aged men sit around drinking pints and loudly lamenting Arsenal’s continued dominance of the premier league. Proving that the pub caters to all sorts however, sitting on stools around the bar to my left are four young business men wearing cheap, off-the-rack suits and uninspired ties. They too though are drinking pints and talking far more loudly than is really required.

“Nah. No way.”

“I reckon you’re wrong and it is.”

“And I reckon ya need to put ya glasses on, mate!”

“Hey Johnny, why don’t ya put ya money where ya mouth is then? If ya so positive that it’s real then why don’t we make it interesting?”

“Fine. If I can prove it’s real then you’ve gotta buy me shooters for the rest of the night. If I’m wrong though I’ll get in the next two rounds.”

“You’re on! I’m telling ya now though that there ain’t a snowflake’s chance in hell of ya being right!”

“Danny’s right. There just ain’t no way it’s real. I mean, my bird’s a hairdresser and she ain’t never come home and bleated on at me about some bloke comin’ in an’ havin’ his hair dyed red.”

“And how many Asians has Lucy had visiting that fucking dive she’s got a nerve calling a salon, huh? I bet they’d take one look at it and go screaming back to Hong Kong.”

Realizing that it’s the color of Aya’s hair they’re betting on, I pay them closer attention and, as I watch them grinning and teasing each other, quickly reach the decision that they’re essentially harmless. Like the Umbro Man and the woman behind the bar, they don’t care that we’re strangers and are just treating us as they would anyone. They’re not pissed off that we’re in *their* bar, or on *their* territory, and they’re clearly not viewing us as any sort of threat. In fact, I’m pretty sure they’re behaving exactly as they do every night. Drink. Laugh. Talk utter crap.

Live. Have fun.

“’Ere you go, love,” the woman declares, still smiling brightly as she places my drinks on the counter. “You want anything else while you’re at it or will this do for now?”

“These will do for now, thank you,” I reply, paying her. “I’m sure I’ll be back soon though.”

“You do that, chicken. I’ll still be ‘ere,” she retorts, handing me back my change before, with a quick hoist of her breasts, undulating over to serve the young men.

Shaking my head in bemusement, I -- give up on waiting for Ken to help me -- pick up the drinks and make my way back to the booth. Placing the glasses on the table, I push the lemonades over to Aya and Chloé and, grinning, sink down in the chair next to the one containing all the shopping. “There you go,” I smirk. “Enjoy your drinks.”

“What? No straw?” Chloé murmurs, picking up his glass and peering at it as though he’s not quite sure what to do with it. “But I thought all soft drinks were meant to be drunk through a straw…”

“You’ve been spending too much time listening to Michel,” Ken interjects, returning to the table and throwing himself into the chair next to mine. “Here, watch this,” he adds, grabbing his glass of cider and downing half of it in one long gulp. “You just need to drink it like a man.”

“Oh. Of course. Silly me,” Chloé replies, struggling not to laugh as he takes a delicate sip of lemonade. “Mmm… Aya, you really must try it. It’s a *lovely* vintage, the lemons, I do believe, having come from the south-western region of France.”

“Man, you are beyond full of it at times,” Ken mutters with a laugh. “Hey, I’d watch it if I were you though. I mean, you *do* know that if you laugh while drinking a fizzy drink you may end up with it bubbling out of your nose, right? Now, while it’s something I, for one, would pay good money to see, I’m not too sure about your reaction being one innocent members of the public really need to witness.” 

“Your concern for my well being is touching, Ken,” Chloé retorts, swiftly placing his glass on the coaster and surreptitiously sliding it along the table away from him. “I do, however, concede your point.”

Deciding I need a cigarette to aid my move from American beer to English ‘bitter’, I ferret through the shopping bags until I come to the pack Aya confiscated from Chloé and, pulling it out, flip open the top. One entire smoke is missing from the packet and this causes me to laugh. Poor Chloé. He didn’t even get to finish one cigarette before Aya, in his disguise as a member of the Nicotine Police, swooped in and saved him from himself.

Lighting up, I take a drag on the cigarette and stretch languidly. “Ah… That sure hits the spot.”

“What it’s actually hitting on, and knocking *down*, is your life expectancy,” Aya complains, shoving the ashtray across the table to me and scowling. “Honestly, Yohji. It’s a disgusting habit that has no redeeming features whatsoever and I don’t know why you insist on keeping it up.”

“Well?” Chloé murmurs, looking at Aya expectantly and waving an airy hand in my direction. “Go on. Do to Yohji what you did to me outside and snatch it out of his hand.”

“There’s no point,” Aya sighs, an unreadable expression settling momentarily over his face. “You, I keep on at because I know, having done it once, that you’ve got the willpower to quit. Yohji though… Well, let’s just say I’ve resigned myself to the fact we’re going to lose him one day to his own weak-willed stupidity.”

“I…” Damn. Clearly Aya’s particular unit of the Nicotine Police are on some sort of crack down and now I’m in the firing line.

“Quitting isn’t as easy as you perhaps think it is,” Chloé states quietly, lowering his hand and giving a small shrug. “In fact, I was a complete horror to be around while I was quitting. Free? You were there at the time, weren’t you? It not being a time of my life I especially care for, I don’t remember any of the details but I *know* it… *I* was… unpleasant.”

“The word feral would not be an understatement,” Free replies mildly. “I seem to recall that you were using patches but, because you did not believe they were working, you took it upon yourself to…”

“Ah!” Chloé interrupts, an embarrassed expression ghosting over his face. “You don’t need to say it as neither Aya nor Yohji need to know about that particular… lapse of reason. So, please, keep it to yourself.”

“I’m not saying it would be easy,” Aya murmurs, his eyes accusing as he stares at the smoke held between my fingers. “I just think, given that it’s such a filthy, poisonous habit, that, well, you could give some thought to trying to, if not quit, then at the very least cut down.”

“I…” Of course he chooses what’s more or less a public forum to put me on the spot, doesn’t he. Oh. And look. Even Ken’s giving little nods of agreement.

Feeling as though I *have* to continue with it, that putting it out now would be like admitting defeat and handing over immediate victory to Aya, I take a drag on my cigarette and sigh. “Okay. Fine. I’ll think about making cutting back my New Year’s Resolution,” I mutter. “How’s that?”

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” Aya replies, his expression dubious, “but, yeah, it’s still better than nothing.”

“That’s his way of saying he’s going to hold you to it,” Chloé pipes up, smiling. “What’s more, given that I now hold the holier-than-thou status of a reformed smoker, I may just have to help him.”

“Looking forward to it already,” I murmur, taking another quick puff on my smoke before stubbing it out in the ashtray and taking a mouthful of beer. Although I’m hardly going to volunteer it, I hadn’t -- given the topic of conversation -- been enjoying the cigarette all that greatly anyway.

Moving on from my selfish desire to give myself lung cancer, Chloé and Ken start talking about their day in the shop and, from there, time blurs in a haze of -- what to anyone else would be mundane -- contentment. Even Aya relaxes and before long he’s busily -- for Aya -- regaling the table with the indignities inflicted on him by the ‘inept and arrogant’ shop assistants of Oxford Street. Listening to both his tales and Chloé’s laughter, I can’t help but smile and yet again find myself thanking the unknown for the simple fact that we’re all still here.

The issue of eating in the pub gets raised at some point but after Chloé puts his own unique take on the menu written on the chalkboard above the bar -- “If you don’t feel like consuming either some questionable seafood-like substance or a slab of road kill masquerading as steak with a plate of fries and, oh God, my stomach’s going into conniptions at the very thought, *mushy* peas, then, sorry, you’re going to go hungry.” -- the idea is quickly vetoed. No one feeling any great need for food though, the subject of leaving isn’t mentioned and two hours pass before I’m even really aware of it.

Slightly surprised at how quickly the time has flown, I look across to Aya with the intention of blandly reminding him of his earlier displeasure at having to come here and find him deep in murmured conversation with Chloé. From what little I’m able to pick up, I deduce that they’re speaking German and, without warning, a feeling of uncertainty settles over me. Not jealousy or anything like that, just… uncertainty.

With my lack of German, unbecoming habits, and… common… fashion sense, I don’t know what it is either of them could possibly see in me. Compared to their effortless style and intelligence, I’m like a commoner trying to assimilate with royalty.

“Indulge me, please,” Free murmurs quietly, lightly tapping his finger on my arm so as to ensure he’s got my attention. “I have a theory I require you to assist me in proving.”

“Huh?” Dragging my gaze away from Aya and Chloé, I look at Free and shrug. “What am I supposed to do?”

“All you need do is stand up as though you were going to get another drink,” Free replies cryptically. “Now, if you’d be so kind as to…”

“Er… But, why?” I query, cutting Free off and sighing as I catch a glimpse of Aya smiling at something Chloé’s just said out of the corner of my eye. “No offence, but I’m not exactly in the mood for games at the moment.”

“This is not a game,” Free responds, slowly sliding his empty glass across the table towards me. “The drink you offered earlier, if it is still available I wish to now take you up on it.”

Making a note never to underestimate Free, I take the glass from him and nod. “Cunning,” I murmur, “very, very cunning.”

“It would be impossible to have known Chloé for so long without having picked up a few pointers from him,” Free replies, smiling benignly. “Now, when you stand up, do so quietly and without asking the others whether they wish for another drink.”

My curiosity having now been hooked by whatever the hell Free’s ‘theory’ just happens to be, I don’t question his instructions and carefully push back my chair. Although I’m certain I do this next-to-silently, I’m barely on my feet before Aya and Chloé, their conversation having come to an abrupt stop, are both looking directly over at me.

“As I suspected,” Free states, a satisfied expression on his face as he leans back in his chair, “you are certainly neither unnoticed nor invisible.”

Although it takes a few seconds for the results of Free’s experiment to get through to me, when they do all my doubts dissolve and I grin. “Apparently not,” I retort, picking up my empty glass and, without answering the questioning look in Chloé’s eyes, walking across to the bar.

Reassured that, regardless of just what it is they might see in me, they nonetheless definitely see it, I flirt shamelessly with the woman behind the bar as I place my order and by the time I’m picking up my glasses she’s laughing helplessly and telling me I remind her of her grandson. Eschewing asking her whether she calls her grandson ‘chicken’ too for getting back to my friends, I thank her profusely for both the drinks and the compliment and head back to the table.

Nearing it, I watch Aya and Chloé slip out of the booth and begin to walk in the direction of the toilet. Either common sense or paranoia telling me that -- they’re all but asking for trouble by going together -- this probably isn’t the greatest idea they’ve ever had, I hurriedly place my drinks on the table and am about to follow them when Free closes his hand around my wrist.

“Leave them,” he declares solemnly, pulling me down into my chair. “While I know what it is you are thinking, they will be fine.”

“Of course they will,” Ken interjects, helping himself to a mouthful of my beer before chasing it down with a gulp of his cider. “Think about it. They might look dodgy as all fuck disappearing into the toilets together, but would *you* want to go in there and pick a fight with them?”

“No, but…”

“Not only can they look after themselves,” Free murmurs, nodding his thanks for his drink as he picks up the glass, “but they can also look after each other. As Ken said, if there were to be any blood lost it would not be theirs.”

While not fully swayed by Ken and Free’s argument, I realize that I’d probably only make things -- if indeed there even are to be ‘things’ -- worse and slump down in my chair. As I do so though, two of the men from the bar, Johnny and Danny, I think, walk past and I’m suddenly reminded of their drunken bet in relation to Aya’s hair color.

“Look, I’m sure you’re both right, but…”

“Chill,” Ken interrupts, placing his hand on my thigh and pushing me back down in my chair as I make to get up. “Nothing’s gonna happen, got it? Even if those two jokers try something on they’ll be put back in their place quick smart so, sit, drink, and, for God’s sake, stop behaving like such a freakin’ mother hen. I’ve lived through Chloé mothering Aya and Aya mothering Chloé, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to put up with you getting in on the act and mothering both of them.”

“But…” Shaking my head, I watch the two men slip through the door into the toilet and scowl at Ken. “If anything *does* happen, I’m holding you personally responsible.”

Grinning, Ken slings his arm around my shoulders and gives me a brusque hug. “I can live with that,” he replies, releasing me and taking another quick mouthful of cider. “See? Here come the other two back out already. Told you nothing would happen. Aya probably glared at them with such intent that they couldn’t get out of there quickly enough.”

“Mmm…” Not wanting to agree with Ken for fear of giving him a big head, I look over my shoulder and watch as Johnny and Danny loudly weave their way back to the bar.

“Ha! Am I the *man* or what, huh?”

“Oh yeah… You’re the man.”

“You could at least say it like you mean it.”

“Oh… You are da’ *man*! Does that meet with your approval?”

“Ask me again after you’ve bought me the first of my many shooters.”

“Of all the stupid fucking things we could have bet on…”

“Sore loser.”

“What’s with them?” Ken queries, his eyes, like mine, following the two men as they rejoin their friends. “It sounds like they must have had some sort of bet on something.”

Turning back around, I give Ken an unimpressed look. “If you must know, their bet was in relation to whether Aya’s hair color is real or not.”

“Oh.” His eyes narrowing dangerously, Ken glowers at the men. “Why didn’t you say something? Stupid bastards. Do you think I should go teach them the error of their ways?”

“No, I don’t think you should go and do that,” I mutter, planting my hand on Ken’s shoulder and pushing him back down in his chair. “Just… We’ll wait for Aya to come back before we take it upon ourselves to get all righteously indignant on his behalf. Oh… And, if you hadn’t kept interrupting me, I *would* have said something.”

“Stupid bastards,” Ken repeats, swiveling back around to face the table. “If they’ve done anything to upset him I’m gonna fucking…”

“Who’s a stupid bastard *this* time?” Chloé murmurs inquiringly, wafting his hand over Ken’s arm as he slides back into the booth. “And, seeing as I’m asking questions, who’s upset?”

“If the stupid bastards have done anything to upset Aya…”

“Upset me?” Aya murmurs, cutting Ken off mid rant and frowning as he settles himself next to Chloé. “Why would I be upset? The amenities weren’t even as disgusting as we’d imagined them to be.”

Some of his cider-fuelled bluster leaving him at the sight of Aya looking so unbothered by his encounter with Johnny and Danny, Ken peers across the table at the redhead and shrugs helplessly. “Those two that followed you in, Yohji said they’d been placing bets on whether, you know, your hair is… well… real… and, well, we kinda thought…” Trailing off, Ken glances at me imploringly. “Yohji. You tell him.”

“Well, like Ken said, they’d had this bet, and…” Glaring at Ken, I have a drink of my beer and sigh. “And, well, seeing as they came out with an answer, we were… kinda… you know… wondering how’d they’d… found out.”

“Oh.” The faintest blush appearing in Aya’s cheeks, he glances at Chloé -- who’s wearing an expression of pure innocence -- and echoes my sigh. “They asked,” he mutters, “that’s all.”

“They… *asked*?” I retort, astonished by the simplicity of Aya’s response. “And, what, you just *told* them?”

“No…” His blush intensifying, Aya gently digs his elbow into Chloé’s ribs and gestures around the table. “Go on. You may as well tell them.”

“Oh, very well, if I *must*,” Chloé smirks. “*I* told them. They asked and I replied. It was quite a polite exchange, actually.”

“And they *believed* you?” Ken queries incredulously, his eyes wide and fixed on Chloé. “I mean, if *I* wanted to know someone’s true hair color I’d have to see it for myself.”

Making a tsking sound under his breath, Chloé gives a little shake of his head and smiles. “But, Ken, why *wouldn’t* they have believed me?”

“Um…” Sighing as he concentrates on seeing Chloé as Johnny and Danny would have, Ken rolls his eyes and flops back in his seat. “Forgive me. I don’t even know why I asked.”

“And *I* don’t know why we’re still having this conversation,” Aya interjects just a tad grumpily. “Actually, seeing as I’m sick of the fascination my hair seems to inspire, I’m thinking of perhaps dying it black. What do you think of that, huh?”

“You’d look like a goth,” Ken drawls, giving a dismissive shake of his head. “Besides, if you did that you’d be… well… uneven. Unless, of course, you either dyed *all* your hair or, alternatively, got out the wax and…”

“Ken!” Aya exclaims, drumming his fingers loudly on the table. “Do. You. Mind?”

As though only just realizing *who* it is he’s having this discussion with, Ken blushes and, clearly embarrassed, quickly swallows the rest of his cider. “Ah… Sorry.”

“Mmm… I should think…”

“Actually, thinking of that, I’ve just got to say how cool Faith’s hair is,” Ken interrupts, blithely talking over the top of Aya and focusing his attention on Chloé. “Don’t you think it’s cool? Is it real, or does he dye it? I’d love to have hair like Faith. Purple and black, I mean, just how cool is that, huh?”

Okay. So perhaps I shouldn’t have bought Ken that last glass of cider…

“His hair is naturally that color,” Chloé replies cautiously, stretching his leg out under the table and giving me a kick in the ankle to stop me from smirking. “Now, where should we go for dinner on the way home?” he continues, blatantly trying to deflect what we all know is going to be Ken’s next question.

“So, if it’s natural,” Ken murmurs, getting in first, the glazed look in his eyes at odds with his serious, deep-in-thought expression, “what color are his…”

“Ken!” Having had enough, Aya bangs his hands down on the table and shoots Ken a warning look. “They could be fluorescent green for all I A) know or B) need to know, so, for God’s sake, just drop it. Yourself aside, this is not a topic any of us feel any great need for.”

“But…”

“Ken!”

“You’re no fun,” Ken mutters, getting unsteadily to his feet and digging around in his pocket for change. “I need another drink. One more and then we’ll blow this joint.”

“I actually think you’ve had enough,” Aya replies, making to reach for Ken but stopping when Chloé shakes his head. “Huh? You can’t think…”

“The damage is already done,” Chloé murmurs, shrugging as, taking his victory and running with it, Ken meanders over to the bar. “One more isn’t going to hurt.”

“Well, if he pukes in the car on the way home I’m not going to be the one cleaning it up,” Aya replies flatly. “In fact, perhaps we should just call a cab for him now and not risk the car at all.”

Leaving Chloé to placate Aya’s fears about the threat of a projectile vomiting Ken sitting behind him in the car, I turn to Free and smile. “You’ve been awfully quite,” I murmur. “Didn’t you feel as though you had anything to add?”

“Oddly enough, no,” Free replies calmly. “It was not a discussion I felt I could add too.”

“No?” I laugh, looking at Free and noticing -- despite it being one of those things I actually *know* -- how his hair, like Faith’s, just happens to be two tone. “Actually…”

“Is it something you are really interested in knowing?”

“Ah…” Free’s apparent willingness to answer my unasked -- yet seemingly obvious -- question taking all the… fun… out of it, I quickly shake my head and stand up. “No… It’s okay. I’d prefer to guess anyway… Oh! No! That’s not what I meant at all! I don’t care, honest, and it’s really, *really* not something I think about. And… And, if you don’t mind, I think I’ll just go and sit with Aya for a while…”

Looking amused, Free nods and toasts me with his glass. “As you wish.”

Not wanting to dig an even deeper hole for myself, by attempting to think of a reply, I smile vacantly and scurry around to slide into the booth next to Aya. “Hey there…” I murmur weakly as he turns to look at me, his expression almost as amused as Free’s.

“Putting your foot in it again, are we?” he queries, smiling as he places his hand on my thigh and, under the cloak of the table, gently squeezes it. “Poor Yohji. Sometimes, just like Ken’s, your mouth gets the better of you, doesn’t it?”

“I have absolutely no idea what I was thinking,” I confess, leaning across the table to get my beer. “Hell, I don’t think it even passed through my brain at all and just popped out of my mouth without any form of advance warning.”

“I’m sure you’ll survive,” Aya murmurs, leaving his hand on my leg and tilting his head in the direction of the bar. “Pity the same can’t, however, be guaranteed for Ken. Not only has he already had far too much to drink but, look at him, where does he think he’s going now?”

“Your guess is as good as mine,” I reply, watching Ken as, fresh glass of cider in hand, he hesitates over whether to return to the table or not. To his left, still perched around the bar, are the four young men with an unhealthy interest in Aya’s hair and, as Ken glowers at them, I’m struck by the dreadful, sinking feeling that he may be contemplating taking them on. “Aya…”

“If he moves to his left we’re picking him up and getting out of here,” Aya responds with an exasperated sounding sigh. “Don’t worry, I’m watching him too.”

“Hang on, looks like we can stand down,” I state, my eyes glued on Ken as, tightening his grip on his glass, he begins to slowly move to his right, his expression one of determination. “Where do you think he’s going though? There’s only that bunch of middle aged men sitting over there and, well, they hardly seem like Ken’s scene at all.”

“Oh, just leave him,” Chloé interjects, leaning past Aya to wave at me. “He’s doing the sad, fan boy thing, that’s all. See the gentleman in the somewhat familiar Adidas sweat over there? Well, I believe, having heard Ken say something to this effect earlier, he’s the owner of this establishment, Mr World Cup Sixty-Six. Ken probably wants his autograph.”

“And he waits until he’s almost plastered before raising the courage to go over to him?” Aya murmurs with obvious disbelief. “Honestly. There are times when I don’t think Ken’s fully with it.”

“Only times?” Chloé echoes lightly. “Why, you’re far kinder towards him than I am. Oh, but wait… Check it out. The Umbro Man and his drunken posse of rock apes are lumbering over there too.” Pausing, Chloé pulls a face and mock cringes. “Am I the only one thinking now would perhaps be a good time to retrieve Ken and leave?”

“Maybe we’re reading the scene all wrong,” I reply hopefully, cringing myself as, reaching Ken, the Umbro Man comes to a stop next to him and gives him a -- none-too-gentle -- friendly slap on the back. “Or, okay, maybe not…”

“Ken though… He’s smiling, isn’t he?” Aya queries, squinting at the odd little scene of bonhomie being played out in front of us. “And, look, I think that man is now admiring his trainers.”

“Ah, is there nothing more touching than witnessing the strange bonding ritual of football fans?” Chloé laughs, settling back in the booth. “I *am* relieved though as I have to say I harbor no desire whatsoever to have to rescue Ken from those gentlemen,” he adds, effectively stopping the conversation dead as he twists around to face Free.

Looking away from Ken and his new best, trainer appreciating, buddies, Aya smiles softly and surreptitiously shifts a little closer to me. “If I was as unpleasant to be around today as I fear I might have been,” he murmurs, “then I apologize. Shopping… disagrees… with me at the best of times but, even so, that doesn’t excuse my behavior and if I ruined your day I want you to know that I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t ruin my day,” I reply with a grin, surprised that Aya’s apologizing at all but knowing better than to make a big deal out of it. “You had your moments, for sure, but you didn’t ruin it. Didn’t even come close, in fact. Besides, you’d have to agree that it’s ended pretty well, wouldn’t you? I know you didn’t want to come here but, let’s face it, it could have been a hell of a lot worse.”

“You’re right, it could have,” Aya agrees, glancing at his watch. “I still think, in order to preempt Yuki and Michel having to send text messages asking where we are, that we should get going shortly. Not to mention I’m sure Michel’s getting antsy over the fact we’re so very rudely keeping the Christmas decorations from him.”

“A little anticipation never hurt anyone,” I drawl, eyeing the packet of smokes on the other side of the table with wistful interest. Not wanting to give Aya cause to share his lung cancer, early death spiel with me again though, I force myself to push my need for a nicotine fix out of my mind and, wanting to check on how he’s going, glance back over at Ken. “On second thoughts,” I continue, hardly believing my eyes and grabbing blindly for Aya’s arm, “I think it’s cruel of us to be denying Michel his simple pleasures and, really, should be on our way right now.”

“What’s he done…” Trailing off as he takes in the sight of Ken wearing -- read, all but being dwarfed by -- the Umbro Man’s team jacket, Aya shakes his head and taps Chloé on the hand. “Knowing how much you like a good laugh at Ken’s expense, you may want to check this out,” he murmurs, wearily rubbing his temples. “Actually, I don’t know what’s more… fascinating… Ken modeling the jacket or the tattoos on the man’s arms. The map of England colored in with Union Jack, I get, but what’s the other one? It looks to be some sort of emblem.”

“It’s the emblem of England’s football team,” I reply, an embarrassing degree of wonderment coming through in my voice. “See? It’s got the three lions in it and…”

“Oh dear God, Yohji’s right,” Chloé interrupts, his expression one of vague surprise. “Football fans, seriously, they’re a breed apart. And, look it appears as though the performance is about to get even better. I think they’re about to start… dancing… to that song they’ve just increased the volume of on the jukebox. Either that or attempt their own quaint English version of that war cry the New Zealanders do at the beginning of the rugby.”

“I think you’ll find that they’re about to, if not sing, then *chant* along with the song,” Free comments, his expression -- as usual -- as impassive and as unbothered as ever. “If you listen to the lyrics you’ll note their relevance to the men and understand.”

There not being much else for us to do, we reluctantly fall silent and, as Ken and his new -- please God, don’t let them be hooligans -- friends gather around the former football star and his table, listen to the lyrics being chanted over the music.

// We’re playing for England!  
In-ger-land!  
We’re playing the song.  
We’re playing for England!  
In-ger-land! //

As the chorus or whatever it is continues to repeat, Ken and his buddies begin to jump up and down and, with air-punching glee, bellow along to it. Apparently being used to this peculiar behavior, the ex-player and his friends turn around and toast their cheer squad with their pints. Everyone, from those sitting around the table to those doing the chanting, are smiling and looking as though they’re enjoying themselves. For the first time in too long, Ken seems genuinely happy and for this reason alone I’m prepared to tolerate the deafening, discordant racket. 

“I think they’re all having fun,” Chloé murmurs blandly, “don’t you?”

“That’s one word for it, I suppose,” Aya replies slowly. “I’m not sure *I* am, but, whatever, to each their own. At least Ken’s found something to take his mind off pubic hair.”

“Aya!”

“Well, it’s true.”

“That’s beside the point. I thought we’d heard the end of that particular topic.”

Tuning Chloé and Aya’s light-hearted bickering out, I close my eyes and just let the chant wash over me. While clearly orientated towards football, there’s nonetheless something apt about the repetitive lyrics that I just can’t shake.

We are, in a sense, playing for ‘England’ now.

What this also means is that the past is well and truly just that. Weiss, my marriage, old teams, old wounds - they’re all history.

And the future, which I happen to personally think is looking pretty darn bright, is whatever we make of it.

~*~*~*~*~

Reaching the end of my cigarette, I stub the butt out in the fine bone china saucer I’m using as an ashtray and light up another - my fifth in quick succession. Bringing it to my lips, I take a long drag and, thankful that I haven’t had to start my promise to Aya to cut back on my smoking yet, release the mouthful of smoke into the frosty night air. Although on the drive to the Docklands from the school the exterior climate gauge in the Mercedes stated that the temperature was barely above that of freezing, I don’t feel the cold and put it down to the simple fact that I’m too numb to feel a thing. Not the chilly air, not the nicotine as it hits my system, not the warm buzz of the alcohol contained in the two cans of Bud I’ve already poured down my throat, not… anything.

Fearful of closing my eyes in case I’m assailed with the sickening images that will forever remain our lingering, unwanted gift from tonight’s mission, I lean on the balcony and stare down at the Thames. A boat, one of those tourist ferries used for sight-seeing cruises, glides along the river, a Christmas party in full swing on its decks. Ablaze with fairy lights and strands of thick, luxurious tinsel that would have Michel seeing green with envy, there’s almost something magical about it as it carries the festive revelers along the river. On its flat roof is a huge green Christmas tree lit up with fiber optic stars that change to all colors of the rainbow while under it, his mixing table stretching out further than his arms could ever reach, is the party’s DJ. 

Oblivious, if only for a short time, to all of life’s misery, the party goers, all dressed to the nines, mill around on the decks. Some are dancing while others are just standing around in small groups, drinking and laughing. All look as though they’re enjoying themselves. The DJ, a small man wearing a Father Christmas hat, in particular looks as though he’s having a complete ball.

Although I don’t want to be, a small part of me, the part that’s still aching over what we walked in on, can’t help but be jealous of those on the boat. They might, when sobriety returns, have to worry about how they’re going to pay off their Visa bill or whether their old Vauxhall Cavalier is going to pass its next MOT, but, really, their lives are still simple. Some may read… and despair… of the sick, perverted crimes they see in the paper or have the misfortune to encounter on the news, but, when it all boils down to it, they don’t have to deal with any of it. They’re… apart… from the darkness. It may, from time to time, reach out a cadaverous finger to brush across the outer edges of their lives but, so long as they’re strong and don’t engage it, it never lingers and is gone as quickly as it came.

Schuldig… Kimura… The fucking slimeball piece of shit Aya and Chloé sent groveling and sobbing to hell forty minutes ago… Hitler… Every Goddamn asshole who associates with a terrorist movement… Pedophiles… Sick fucks who are cruel to animals… Serial killers… The list, unfortunately, goes on.

There’s no help for it. While the good may predominantly outweigh the bad, there’s still too many sick, disgusting freaks slithering around in this world.

My stomach once again rising in revolt as my thoughts travel back in the direction of the late George ‘while children under the age of nine are good, the chronically disabled are even better because they lack the ability to ever speak of their suffering’ Shillinger, I take another drag on my cigarette and return my attention to the boat. Watching the DJ, who jumps around the roof like some sort of monkey playing it up for bananas, pick up a vinyl LP and brandish it wildly in the air before dropping it on to his turntable, I deduce that he’s going to crank it up for a crowd favorite just as the needle hits the record and the instantly recognizable start to Madonna’s Holiday sounds out across the night. Deriving no sense of satisfaction from having been proven right, I extinguish my cigarette in the saucer and, turning around to retrieve my can of Bud from the wrought iron table, spot Aya stalking towards the glass sliding doors that lead out to where I’m standing on the balcony.

Realizing that I hadn’t shut the door and that the apartment is now enjoying, although I’m sure that’s not quite the right word for it, the sounds of Madonna bleating on about how all the world needs is a ‘holiday’, I take a step backwards and hold my hands up in an apologetic, placating gesture. Aya, who’s still wearing both his mission coat and the closed, unreadable expression that settled over his face the second Shillinger gasped his last breath, shoots me an annoyed look as he steps out onto the balcony before striding over to the edge and glaring down at the boat.

“Inconsiderate fools,” he hisses, smacking his hands down on the balcony’s ledge and looking for all the world as though he’s contemplating grabbing the saucer and attempting to throw it at the DJ’s head. “If they didn’t think the world revolved around their pathetic festivities they’d know there are still those who don’t need reminding at every fucking turn that it’s Christmas.”

“It’s just a party,” I offer lamely, hesitating over placing my hands on Aya’s shoulders and, taking the coward’s way out, picking up my can of beer instead. “They’re not hurting anyone and within a few minutes will be far enough down the river for us not to be able to hear them. So, you know…”

“I don’t want to fucking hear them now!” Aya complains, spinning around and fixing his baleful gaze on me. ‘They… Goddamn it! If you’re going to stay out here then I’m going to have to insist you keep the door shut.”

Not quite daring to step past Aya -- for fear of being bitten -- in order to reach my smokes, I finish the rest of my beer in two long gulps and place the empty can back on to the table. “Is he…”

“Yes,” Aya states flatly, his expression abruptly changing to one of concern as he returns to the doorway. “Well, the water’s still running anyway, so I assume he’s still in there.”

“That’s where he’ll be then,” I murmur, sidling over to the ledge and swiftly lighting a smoke. “Aya…”

“I don’t know what to do, okay!” Aya interrupts, his agitation and anxiety clear both in the tone of his voice and the tense way he’s holding himself. “I… I’m sure he’ll be out when he’s good and ready. I… We just have to wait.”

“You could always go check on him,” I suggest quietly, bringing my smoke to my lips and leaning my back against the ledge. “It’s been over twenty minutes, Aya, and, well, I’m sure he wouldn’t mind. For all we know he could even be waiting for you”

His shoulders slumping even further, Aya sighs and steps back into the apartment. “Maybe you’re right… I don’t know,” he murmurs, gazing at the door into the bathroom that Chloé disappeared through -- without having said so much as a word since leaving Shillinger’s alleged ‘school’ -- over twenty minutes ago. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to try though. Yohji? Should I… I mean… What do you think I should do?”

“I wouldn’t have suggested it if I didn’t think it was a good idea,” I reply, shrugging as, gradually, the boat moves further along the river and, as I’d told Aya, the sounds of Madonna merge with the other predominantly traffic based noises that make up a typical London night. “I’d do it myself only I know you’re still the one who’s in a better situation to… well… deal with things like this.”

“I don’t know,” Aya repeats dubiously, his fingers straying to, and starting to undo, the many buckles that keep his coat done up. “I…”

“Stop worrying and just do it,” I interject, picking up the saucer and gravitating over to the doorway. “Go on, my love. If it helps, think about it in these terms… Has Chloé *ever* reacted unfavorably to your presence?”

Shaking his head, Aya finishes unbuckling his coat and, with a sigh, drapes it across the back of the beige leather sofa. “No,” he replies, glancing over his shoulder at the bathroom door before wandering back over to stand near the doorway, “he hasn’t. It… It’s like Prague. He hates… Well, we all do, but things like this just really get to Chloé, and… And to walk in on Shillinger…” Trailing off, Aya’s expression hardens. “I’ve seen a lot, but that, that… No. I don’t even know any word strong enough to describe my utter loathing for that sick bastard.”

“Then don’t even try to think of one and just go to Chloé,” I respond wanly, tapping ash into the saucer and, because I don’t want Aya to see the tears I can feel welling in my eyes, gazing out across the Thames. “Just don’t think about him, Aya. He got his.”

“His death, while justified, doesn’t undo the pain and misery of his victims though,” Aya murmurs quietly, moving closer and, wrapping his arms around my waist, pressing himself up against my back. “I don’t believe in drawing out death but, for him, if Mihirogi had made us fully aware of his predilections before we got to the school and encountered them for ourselves, I think I could have made an exception.”

“It still would have been too merciful for the prick,” I mutter, relaxing against Aya. “But… Stop it. You have to stop thinking about him. We… We’ve done all we can do.”

“I suppose,” Aya responds, resting his chin on my shoulder and hugging me tightly for a moment before releasing me and walking back into the apartment. “Well, seeing as I can still hear the shower running, I’m going to go check on Chloé. If I’m not out in ten or so minutes you can assume that I’ve failed wholeheartedly and may like to begin planning your own strategy in regards to how best to get through to him.”

“I’m sure you’ll be fine,” I murmur, finishing my smoke and, after placing the saucer on the table, following Aya inside the apartment. “Now, go. If we’re going to spend the night here I’m going to want a shower and would appreciate there being some hot water left.”

“I’m going, I’m going,” Aya replies, frowning as he starts to move across the open plan living area to the bathroom. “Remember, ten minutes, and then come and rescue… whichever one of us it is that ends up needing rescuing most.” 

“You know something, I think you’d be far better off if you occasionally chose to act first and think later,” I retort teasingly, attempting to lighten the mood. “Go on, move. It’s only Chloé we’re talking about here, not, you know, someone scary and unknown.”

“Just because you know someone doesn’t mean you can always help them,” Aya responds, giving me a sad look over his shoulder before, after giving it a cursory knock, opening the door and disappearing into the bathroom.

Somewhat relieved that Aya didn’t bother to wait for an answer to his comment, I stare at the closed door for a moment before turning around and, with a sigh, walking over to the kitchen. Checking the time on the microwave, I see that it’s only just turned nine and sigh again. The night is still young yet all I want to do is turn the lights off, crawl into bed, and make it -- the events of this evening -- all go away. 

Bed not really being an option because of the way Chloé’s behaving and Aya’s doubts, I’m at a loss as to what to do with myself and, for no other reason than it’s directly in front of me, I open the door to the fridge and peer without interest at its contents. Beer, water, Coke, long-life milk, bottles of Australian Riesling, iced-tea - something for everyone while simultaneously offering no inspiration whatsoever. Sure, I *could* grab a six-pack or two and drink myself into a stupor on the sofa, but what’s the point? It’s not going to change anything, not going to make me forget.

Grabbing a bottle of water, I close the fridge door and, because no one’s around to tell me off, perch myself on the bench by the stove. Twisting the lid off the water, I take a drink and, leaning back on the cool black tiles, gaze around the designed-to-death and quite frankly soulless looking apartment. Situated in one of *the* apartment towers in one of *the* most desired locations in London, the apartment, for all its style and no-expense-spared good taste, has nothing that could be considered homey about it at all. It’s functional, and I shudder to think what it would have cost, but I don’t like it and, not for the first time, wish we hadn’t listened to Mihirogi’s advice and simply stuck to our original plan of going straight home.

Then again…

Thinking outside of my self-absorbed little corner here, she’s probably right. Michel *doesn’t* need to see Chloé’s shock and we *are* better off keeping to ourselves. Logic aside though, I still don’t like it. I’d rather be at home with the cats struggling to see if they can repeat their earlier trick of knocking the Christmas tree in the shop over and listening to Ken and Michel argue over what they believe a traditional Christmas lunch should consist of than I would here.

Here is just… empty… and, in a sense, lonely.

If I was home I could take my mind off things by annoying Yuki with my incessant requests to play Need For Speed with me or, failing that, I could even, and, yes, this is how desperate I’m feeling, trail around after Free and ask him to read my cards. Really, just about anything would have to be better than staring aimlessly at the ceiling and worrying whether Aya’s going to be somehow able to get through to Chloé.

The mission was supposed to be -- and, in terms of actual *effort*, was -- simple. All we had to do was eradicate George Shillinger before he took up his position as Britain’s diplomat in New York. Given that his… predilections… had only just come to light, the only thing that struck us as out of the ordinary in respect to the mission was its timeframe. Instead of getting to either read all of Mihirogi’s carefully collected information or doing any research ourselves, we had to act straight away because he’d moved his flight to New York forward from late next week to tomorrow morning. All in all though it had all the markings of a no brainer. Go in. Kill. Go home. Because Shillinger’s crime involved children, no one thought to ask any questions and the mission was accepted without hesitation.

Regardless of the fact I’m the second oldest, because I’m still very much considered the ‘trainee’ of the team, Mihirogi’s instructions were for me to tag along with Aya and Chloé while she waited in the wings to take charge of the clean up. Again, we accepted this without question. Although it was going to be Chloé’s first ‘proper’ mission since Tokyo, he’d passed all his doctor’s and physical tests with flying colors and, because the target wasn’t going to pose any real threat, it made a logical degree of sense to us that he should be one of the ones to go. As for Aya? Well, it was really only out of him and Free anyway -- as Ken’s still flighty mood and the fear that there’s always a chance his professionalism might go out the window where pedophiles are concerned didn’t make him an all too viable a prospect -- and Mihirogi, for whatever her reasons, decided to go with Aya.

Having, or so we thought anyway, heard enough about Shillinger’s perverted exploits from Mihirogi, our mood was subdued as we drove to the school he’d, until his diplomatic posting had come through, been running with his family’s money. That though was only to be expected.

The first inkling we got of not quite having heard the full story was when we reached the school and saw the minivan with the wheelchair ramps attached to its back door parked out the front. No one said anything though, not until we were creeping through the foyer and saw all the framed commendations and letters of praise congratulating the school on their excellent treatment of the severely disabled. *Then* Chloé groaned and a whispered ‘no’ slipped out of Aya’s mouth. That was all though. A few choice words about Shillinger’s parentage sprung into my mind but, mindful of remaining undetected, I kept them to myself for fear of, once having started, raising my voice.

Shillinger’s school was -- and perhaps Mihirogi *did* tell us and, too caught up on hearing the dreaded ‘P’ word, we took no notice of it -- for disabled children. The sick bastard got his rocks off on…

You’d think it wouldn’t, but sometimes the depravity some individuals indulge in still manages to shock me.

The boy we… caught him with, while having the body of a normal prepubescent, had the mind of an infant. In his hand, which he was using to try and wipe up his tears with, he held a threadbare and clearly much loved stuffed leopard. Because it was, I don’t know, offending him or something, Shillinger was in the process of pulling it out of his grasp when we walked in. 

I can still hear the boy’s anguished howl as the leopard -- his security blanket -- tore in half.

Although it’s debatable, given his mental age, whether seeing his tormentor’s death would have had any impact on him, I was charged with carrying the boy out of the room while Aya and Chloé took care of Shillinger. How they did it isn’t something I’ve cared to ask the details on and, quite frankly, I don’t care. Regardless of how he died, it still would have been too quick.

Mihirogi, who arrived to take the boy off me just as the others were walking out of the room, took one look at Chloé and pulled the keys to KR’s apartment out of her bag while suggesting to Aya that we might like to spend the night there as opposed to going home. His own face almost as gray as Chloé’s, Aya agreed without arguing and, forty short minutes after first walking in to the school, here we are. Stunned, disgusted, silent…

Taking another swallow of water, I glance across at the microwave and see that over a quarter of an hour has passed since Aya went into the bathroom. Although hesitant over following through with his request to play the role of rescuer, I nonetheless put my bottle down and jump off the bench. Unsure of just what it is he expects me to do, I walk over to the bathroom and, all the time praying he’s already reached the conclusion that I’m not needed, give the door a quick knock. When this doesn’t receive a response, I cast a longing glance at my smokes out on the balcony and, opening the door cautiously, poke my head into the bathroom.

“Ah… Aya? Chloé? You okay in here?” I call out, as a fresh wave of concern washes over me at the sight of the two tightly entwined figures standing in the middle of the shower. Given how close and how *still* they are, it’s doubtful that either are exactly in need of rescuing and I’m in the process of returning to the living area when Aya glances at me and, lifting his hand away from the small of Chloé’s back, indicates that I should stop. He then says something to Chloé that I can’t hear and, after the blond has nodded his apparent agreement, reaches out and quickly opens the shower door.

“Yohji…” Falling silent, Aya returns his hand to Chloé’s back while continuing to gaze at me as I stand flatfooted in the doorway.

While I *know* Aya’s inviting me to join them in the shower, something makes me hesitate. Compared to what we saw at the school, standing there so clearly lost in each other, they’re such a picture of… purity… that, perhaps irrationally, I don’t want to disrupt it. Not to mention my already decidedly crappy evening would take a turn for the worse if Chloé, at the last second, changed his mind and freaked out.

Lifting his head away from Aya’s shoulder, Chloé, as though sensing he’s the cause of my hesitation, glances at me and smiles faintly. “Yohji, please…” Chloé murmurs, blushing slightly as Aya gently strokes his cheek. “As Free once said to me, neither question nor doubt. Just accept.”

Nodding, I step fully into the bathroom and, while doubts still niggle in the back of my mind, begin to get undressed. They both seem to want me to join them in the shower, and God knows it’s what I want too, but… Hell. Aya and Chloé, they’re so in sync with each other and, by the sound of Aya’s earlier comment about Prague, have been through this kind of… bonding session… before that I’m just afraid my presence isn’t going to be able to do anything for them.

“Neither question nor doubt. Just accept,” Chloé repeats, closing his eyes as he returns his head to Aya’s shoulder. “Yohji… It’s okay… Trust me. We… We’ve been waiting for you, haven’t we, Aya?”

“In a sense,” Aya smiles, combing Chloé’s hair away from his forehead and giving me an entreating look. “Come on. As Chloé said, it’s okay.”

Giving up on attempting to find logical arguments for why it is I’m still standing in my boxers in the middle of the bathroom, I finish stripping off and step into the shower. Because the cubicle is large enough to fit three comfortably, no one has to move to accommodate my arrival and, pulling the glass door shut behind me, I position myself behind Chloé and gingerly, so as not to press too closely to him, wrap my arms around his back. Never having seen him naked before, this is the first time I’ve seen the scars left on his back by Keegan’s bullets as they exited and the sight of them causes me to flinch. Although they’re both small and healing over nicely, they still represent a time I don’t care to think about and, as with all scars, I wish they weren’t marring his otherwise perfect flesh.

“See? I told you I wasn’t going to freak out,” Chloé whispers, as Aya reaches around him to place his hand on my hip. “Well, not any further, anyway. I… I’m sorry for this and feel as though I should explain...”

“Shhh…” Aya interrupts softly. “I’ve told you already, you don’t have to explain anything as we *know*. Albeit in different ways, we’re all feeling exactly the same.”

“We just react in different ways, that’s all,” I add, emboldened by Chloé’s easy acceptance of my touch and shifting closer to him so that my chest’s pressed up against his back. “If you must know, you’re probably doing us a favor as this way we can’t… hide… from what we’re feeling. You know, better out than in and all that.” 

“As Ken would say, I’m overreacting, as usual,” Chloé protests, opening his eyes but not lifting his head from Aya’s shoulder. “It’s just… I don’t know. It’s like I broke with the boy’s stuffed leopard. Clearly it was his most treasured possession and… Oh God… I don’t want to think about it anymore. Please. Give me something more pleasant to think about…”

“While my vote would be to give him a replacement in the form of, oh, say, Mystique, how about we go out tomorrow and see if we can pick up a new leopard?” I suggest. “It won’t be the same, I know, but… well… maybe he just identifies with the spots or something and… And, well, it would be a start, wouldn’t it?”

An approving smile crossing his face, Aya nods. “Ignoring your dig at Mystique, that’s actually a pretty good idea,” he replies. “Chloé? What do you think? Perhaps we could call in on Hamleys before returning home. I’m sure they’d have to have something similar.”

“I think it’s an excellent idea,” Chloé responds, lifting his head and smiling at me over his shoulder. “And, yes, it’s a start. I knew we were waiting for you for a reason.”

Feeling myself blush although, really, I don’t know why, I kiss Chloé’s cheek before leaning forward and quickly kissing Aya’s as well. “I have an answer for everything, what more can I say,” I murmur, my attempt at appearing modest failing dismally as Aya raises his eyebrow at me. “Hey! I can’t help it if it’s true,” I add, laughing. “Aw, come on, Aya, stop looking at me like that.”

“Stop looking at you like *what*?” Aya queries, giving my shoulder a poke as Chloé, his mood finally improving, starts to smirk. “Maybe, oh great one, oh always right one, I’m just looking at you in awe.”

“If that’s your look of awe, I’d hate to see what your expression of doubt would look like!” I retort, promptly scoring myself yet another poke in the shoulder from Aya for my troubles. “Oi! Watch it with the poking, you!”

“Or what?” Aya murmurs sweetly, changing tack slightly and this time flicking my shoulder with his finger. “Come on. I thought you had an answer for everything.”

“I…” 

“If you two are going to bicker, I think I suddenly have need to be somewhere else,” Chloé interrupts with an amused laugh as he tries to squirm free of our embrace. “No offence, but…”

“Uh-uh…” I mutter, cutting Chloé off and tightening my hold on his waist. “You’re not going anywhere. I mean, if you leave, who’s going to adjudicate?”

Shaking his head, Chloé stops trying to free himself and, as Aya moves in closer, relaxes with a soft sigh. “Fine,” he whispers, “I didn’t really want to go anyway.”

There really being no need for anything more to be said, comfortable silence descends on the bathroom, each of us lost in our own thoughts. While I have no idea what Aya or Chloé might be thinking, my own revolve around how I was wrong in my earlier desire to be back at the house.

So long as I’m with those I love, location doesn’t matter an iota. Right now, here, in a stylish bathroom after an awful mission, I feel whole. 

And lucky.

Very, very lucky.

~*~*~*~

Switching the car off, I pull the keys out of the ignition and, as the automatic roller door silently glides shut, glumly survey the interior of the Audi. It looks, not to put too creative a point on it or anything, as though a couple of stoners in the grips of the munchies to beat *all* munchies have been making it their home for the past month or two. Take-out containers fight for supremacy over screwed up crisp bags, cigarette packets, chocolate wrappers, and cans that once housed anything from soft drink to beer, and the whole mess is spread not only over the front passenger seat but also the foot well and back seat as well.

Worse than the litter though are the cigarette butts -- courtesy of my willpower not being able to survive the bumper-to-bumper traffic I’ve been trapped in for the past five hours -- spilling out of the ashtray as I *know*, to Aya, they’re going to be by far the final straw. Rubbish may be bad, but cigarette butts and ash are intolerable. 

Regardless of it being the season of ‘good will to all men’, Aya, when he sees the condition his car is in, is going to blow a fuse. Possibly even two or three when he notices the tiny, insignificant scratch on the back bumper and that, well, it’s all but out of petrol. It won’t be the car itself he’ll care about, no, it’ll be the ‘principle of the matter’. He loaned me the car in perfect condition and with a full tank of petrol, and I just know that’s how he’ll be expecting it to come back.

Sadly however, and I really wish I wasn’t having to do this to him, he’s going to be disappointed. No doubt sadly disappointed at that and I can probably resign myself right here and now to never being able to borrow his car again. In fact, given that Chloé will take one look at the Audi and immediately declare his Mercedes as out of bounds, I’d better hope either Free and Ken feel more generously towards me regarding the use of their preferred vehicles or that I get my own car to trash quick smart. Failing that, I’d better hope someone gives me a bicycle or a bus pass for Christmas.

Flicking the ashtray shut -- why let Aya see the incriminating evidence straight away when it can be left for a later surprise? -- I open the door and, unfolding my cramped and achy body, climb out of the car. Having not budged from the driver’s seat for close to seven hours, it feels good to be standing and I stretch languidly. As much as I usually enjoy driving, the Christmas Eve inspired mad rush to get both in and out of London by, I swear, fifty percent of England’s population, has made today’s drive home a complete nightmare. By all my calculations I should have been back in London hours ago and I don’t even want to think about how far away I’d still be if I’d left any later.

But, oh well. It doesn’t matter now. After six fun filled days of driving around Britain on a Mihirogi planned orientation and ‘thinking on your feet’ exercise, it’s just good to be back home. 

Although I’d thought, when first presented with my list of tasks and how long it was estimated I’d be away for, that the time would drag and I’d hate being apart from the others, the six days flew by so quickly that there’s a part of me that can hardly believe I’m back home already. Having to follow Mihirogi’s instructions and keep to her allocated timeframes kept me so busy that I didn’t have time to feel -- lonely -- sorry for myself at all and when I’d finally make it to my motel room for the night all I’d usually have time for was a shower and a quick phone call before rolling into bed and promptly passing out. I like to think I’ve passed all the tests with flying colors though. While some tasks were easier to complete than others, I managed to get them all done and I now feel as though I’m in a slightly better position to pull my weight in Krypton Brand.

Hell, at the risk of giving myself an even bigger head here, the only thing I really failed was my plan to clean out, wash, and refill the Audi before handing the keys back to Aya. And that, I’ve just got to say, is something I refuse to take any responsibility for. If Aya had seen the queue of cars lined up to get into the services I’m sure he wouldn’t have been able to bring himself to stop either. As it is I’m just glad I had enough smokes and snacks to get me here or otherwise I would have had to have braved one myself. And just… no. I can feel my temper rising just thinking about it. 

Glancing at my watch, I see that it’s close to half-past-eleven and, realizing that if I want to have any chance of seeing anyone before they go to bed I’d better stop daydreaming and get a move on, open the back door and quickly ferret through the rubbish in search of the plastic bag containing the present that I just know has to be there. Locating it at last, I rub the unidentified sticky substance I’ve managed to collect from something on my hand on the Audi’s carpet before retrieving the bag and closing the door with my hip. 

Not feeling any need to drag my suitcase full of dirty clothes inside on Christmas Eve, I lock the Audi out of habit -- although God knows it would take a brave and spectacularly stupid burglar to try and break into *this* garage -- and wander over to the door. Opening it, I’m about to step out into the courtyard when, slinking out from under the Mercedes, two furry shapes dart between my feet and sprint towards the house. Reaching it, they bolt through the cat door and have disappeared from sight before I’ve even finished regaining my balance. 

Oh yeah. I’m home all right and, some things just never changing, Mystique and Tantomile are still barking -- make that, meowing -- mad.

“Good to see the pair of you too,” I mutter under my breath as, shaking my head in amusement, I step out into the courtyard. Strands of small star-shaped fairy lights have been strung in the tree by the outdoor setting in my absence and they look so beautiful that I can’t help but take the time out to admire them. The water feature has also been cleaned out and blue lights have been placed in its base that bathe both the pond and its surrounds in an almost ethereal glow.

Making a mental note to thank whoever it was for their kindness in making my favored smoking location even more pleasant, I dig my key out of my pocket and wander over to the backdoor. Unlocking it, I walk into the storeroom and, after locking the door behind me, place my bag on the table. Standing perfectly still, I listen for sounds of life coming from the floors above my head but to my disappointment can’t hear any. While it’s not really *that* late, I suspect everyone’s already in bed because of it being Christmas tomorrow -- and because, in the case of some, they know they’ll have to play nice for a good sixteen or so hours and won’t be allowed to go off on their own to sulk -- and, for the umpteenth time today, waste a few seconds on maligning the traffic. If I’d got here when I’d hoped to then…

Shrugging -- never mind. I’m here now. -- I walk across the storeroom and, because I’m curious as to what sort of state it’s going to be in after the mad panic of the past few days, poke my head into the shop. Not having seen it lit up before, my eyes are drawn to the huge Christmas tree set up in the front window and as the purple fairy lights draped over it blink on and off I can’t help but question Michel’s motives in insisting it be decorated solely in purple. He claims that it’s to carry on the Whiskas theme of asking people to donate cans of cat food to the cat-shelter but, looking at it now, I just don’t know if he’s being entirely honest. 

I could be wronging the munchkin, of course, but the brightness of the purple tinsel against the dark green of the tree makes me think of the Dragon’s Tears and I *know*, after listening to Yukio rave on about their profits, how much he admires the franchise and how he’d love -- for the good of all the homeless and famished kitties in the land, of course -- us to replicate it here in England. Having nothing better to do with his time during the flight from Narita to Heathrow he even wrote up a proposed *business plan*. So, yeah, it wouldn’t surprise me to learn that the tree was part of his campaign at all. Still, whatever, it looks good in an unique sort of way and the call for donations was, last heard, a roaring success in that boxes upon boxes of cat food had been taken to the shelter.

Looking away from the Christmas tree, I quickly glance around the shop, noting that all the potted poinsettias have sold, before setting my gaze on the card-covered wall behind the counter. Although there’d been quite a few Christmas cards -- the majority of which were written on in the spidery, barely illegible scrawl of our predominately elderly customers -- there before I’d left, the wall is now full and I have to smile at the large card that takes pride of place in the center of the display. Three cats -- drawn in the classically childish style of two circles sitting on top of each other with pointed ears and whiskers on the top circle and a squiggly line representing a tail coming out of the bottom -- one white, one black, and one a sort of an odd mustard and black color, sit under a traditionally jagged Christmas tree covered in glitter and I know that Charlotte, the young girl with Downs Syndrome, has to be the artist without even having to open it up. 

Touched that she’d put so much effort into a card for us, I make to walk over to the wall when my foot unexpectedly comes in contact with something soft. Glancing down, I see that it’s a leopard Beanie Baby -- one of the *many* leopard print stuffed toys we picked up at Hamleys because none of us could remember what the boy’s toy actually looked like -- and bend down to pick it up. As my hand brushes over it, the leopard’s head comes apart from its body and, not sure how best to proceed, I straighten up and stare down at it in surprise. Unless I’m missing something here, I fail to see why there’s a decapitated leopard print Beanie on the floor of the shop and wonder what I’m supposed to do with it. Do I clean it up or is it there for some sort of reason?

The sound of footsteps on the stairs leading into the storeroom saving me from my peculiar dilemma, I walk out the shop and smile at Ken as, taking the last three steps at once, he lands in front of me. “Hey…”

“Did you have to?” Ken groans, cutting off my greeting and wiping his hands on his plain black linen apron as he glares at me.

“Did I have to *what*?” I retort huffily, folding my arms across my chest and returning Ken’s sour look. “Oh, and incidentally, before you answer, I’m delighted to see you too.”

“Uh… Yeah, sorry,” Ken mumbles, flashing me an apologetic grin. “Hey, Yohji, I’m glad you’re back,” he continues, slapping me on the shoulder. “But, man, did you *have* to let the cats out of the garage? They were actually in there for a reason.”

“Er…” Of course they were. Silly me. “Sorry,” I murmur, shrugging. “I thought they’d just locked themselves in there like normal. What have they done this time? To warrant exile it must have been pretty bad.”

“Given that you were just in the shop, you may have had your foot in the remains of one of their victims,” Ken mutters, giving a dramatic roll of his eyes as he starts back up the stairs. “Come on, I’ve got things I need to be doing in the kitchen.”

“They…killed… a stuffed leopard?” I query dubiously, glancing back into the shop before following Ken up the stairs. “What… Shit. I don’t get it. What did it ever do to them?”

“You know Michel’s friend from the cat-shelter, the old lady with the pale blue hair,” Ken replies over his shoulder, “well she came in this afternoon to thank us for all the work we’ve done for the shelter and, because she probably thought it was a kind thing to do, she had all these catnip scented toys for the cats.”

“Oh-oh…” Given Mystique and Tantomile’s behavior under what passes as normal circumstances, I’m not sure I want to hear the rest of Ken’s explanation and brace myself for what’s to come.

“Oh-oh doesn’t even begin to cover it,” Ken mutters, leading the way down the darkened corridor to the kitchen. “They went *off*. Well, that is, Missy ‘n’ Milly did. Snowball just drooled and rolled around on her back for a while before crashing out on top of the television. The other two though… Christ… If it hadn’t been for Yuki sitting under it playing the Playstation at the time they would have succeeded in getting the tree in the living room down and that was just their first move. Furniture was scratched, ankles were targeted, feet on stairs were fair game, small defenseless stuffed things were taken on and shredded… It was great, let me tell you.”

Laughing as I picture the mayhem the two high-as-a-kite cats would have caused, I join Ken in the kitchen and grin. “I don’t know if I’m sorry to have missed the show or not.”

“Seeing as the reason I know they’re back inside is because I heard the pitty-patter of eight tiny paws as they raced along the corridor here,” Ken replies, making a beeline for the coffee maker, “who said anything about having missed it? Now, would you like a coffee?”

“I’d love a coffee,” I reply, gazing around the kitchen and no longer feeling quite so bad about the state of the Audi. In fact, compared to the complete and utter disarray of the kitchen, the mess in Aya’s car is *nothing*. At least it could be cleaned up in ten or so minutes where as I think it would take some sort of miracle to get the kitchen looking like… well… a *kitchen*… in anything less than half a day. Pots, pans, mixing bowls - just about you name it and it’s out of the cupboard and placed on an available surface. The table -- which has the added bonus of food scattered amongst the recipe books and utensils -- in particular looks as though it’s groaning under the weight of the junk stacked up on it and, assuming this disaster area is all his own work, I look at Ken in astonishment. “Ah… I’m not sure I really want to know, but, you know, idle curiosity and all that… So, come on… What on earth are you doing in here?”

Shrugging, Ken retrieves two mugs from the cupboard and, after shoving a mixing bowl out of the way, places them on the bench. “I’m just wanting to make sure everything is perfect for lunch tomorrow,” he responds, turning around and gesturing at the table. “If you’re curious as to what we’re going to be having there’s a copy of Michel’s… ah… commemorative… menu somewhere on the table.”

“Commemorative menu?” I echo, tentatively pushing aside a pile of cookbooks and picking up the laminated piece of paper I find under them. “Oh… I see what you mean now. He had, I’m assuming, some free time on his hands?” I continue, reading the carefully laid out menu within the holly-themed border and smiling. “Looks… and *sounds*… good though.” 

“Screw sounding good,” Ken mutters, twisting the knobs on the coffee maker with all the skill and ease of a seasoned pro, “I just want it all to *taste* good. God knows if it doesn’t I’ll probably never hear the end of it.”

“I’m sure it will taste exactly as it’s supposed to,” I reply diplomatically, wandering across to the bench and peering over Ken’s shoulder as he makes the coffee. “Hey, since when did you start drinking coffee? I thought you hated it.”

Handing me a cup, Ken smiles and shrugs. “I’ve been drinking it since I decided it was too freakin’ cold to drink Coke all the time,” he responds, filling his own mug. “And, if you must know, it’s grown on me.”

“Mmm… What you’re really meaning to say is that you’ll take your caffeine anyway you can get it,” I murmur, taking a sip of coffee and leaning my back against the bench. “Now, apart from the cats causing even more merry havoc than usual, how’s things been going? Is everyone…”

“Everyone’s good,” Ken interrupts, gulping down half his coffee in one mouthful. “Actually, allow me to amend that slightly. Given that I’m positive Chloé *drugged* Michel an hour or two ago to keep him quiet, let me just change that to I *hope* he’s good. In fact, hell, I just hope he wakes up again.”

“Um…” Putting my cup down on the bench, I look at Ken expectantly. “Drugged? What do you mean… drugged? And… ah… well, why would Chloé want to drug Michel anyway?”

“Because he’s been running around like a hyperactive elf for the past two days, I suspect,” Ken replies, walking over to the table and sinking down in the chair closest to the higgledy-piggledy piles of cookbooks. “Christmas this, Christmas that, cat-shelter this… He’s been so busy organizing everyone that quite frankly he’d turned into a right pain in the ass. If Chloé hadn’t got to him first there was chance I would have reached the point of grabbing the largest meat cleaver I could find and chasing him around the house until he passed out.”

“Or Free got in front of you to run interference,” I snort, watching as Ken paws his way through the books, causing a number of them to slowly slide off the table to the floor. “But back to the allegations of drugging. What makes you think Chloé drugged him?” 

“Maybe he didn’t,” Ken mutters, bending down and scooping up the cookbooks. “It just strikes me as a little odd that Michel literally passed out after drinking a cup of tea Chloé had made for him. I’m thinking he must have slipped a sedative into it or something.”

Quickly picking up my coffee so that I can hold it in front of my mouth to hide the smirk I can feel forming, I gesture across to the cupboard that houses Free collection of teas. “The tea, it didn’t happen to come from a black tin with red and gold Chinese-style dragons on it, did it?”

“Mmm… Come to think of it, I think it did, yeah,” Ken responds, frowning at the cupboard for a moment before returning his attention to his books. “Why?”

“Never mind,” I murmur, taking a mouthful of coffee and seeing no reason why I should let Ken in on Chloé’s little secret concerning the knockout qualities of the tea in question. “Okay though, back to my update on everyone’s well being. Michel’s asleep, and…? What’s everyone else up to?”

“Yuki went to bed a little while ago, I haven’t seen Free since Michel needed carrying to bed, but I suspect he’s in his room, and, as for the other two, the last I saw of Aya he was herding Chloé into the bedroom,” Ken replies, snatching up Michel’s menu and reading it before triumphantly jabbing his finger at the cookbook open in front of him and jumping to his feet. “Not, incidentally, in the way I’m sure you would have done,” he continues, flashing me a cheeky grin as he starts pulling ingredients out of the cupboards and placing them on whatever available space he can find. “The cats’ loopier than usual behavior kinda took its toll on Chloé and gave him a headache, that’s all. Aya was just doing his mother hen duty to ensure that he went to bed.”

Immediately concerned, I trail after Ken and, wanting him to look at me, place my hand on his arm. “He’s okay though, yeah?”

Smiling, Ken shrugs off my hand and nods. “With Aya monitoring him, think about it, would he really have any choice *other* than being okay?”

“When you put it like that,” I murmur, stepping away from Ken and glancing behind me to the door. Suddenly, despite having been doing such a good job of controlling it, I’m anxious to see Aya and Chloé and hope Ken won’t be too offended if, after asking him a few more questions, I slip away and leave him to his cooking. “Hey… Did you get them?” I query, referring to Chloé’s Christmas present that I’d had to ask Ken to pick up for me and hoping like mad that he actually found the time to get them. If he didn’t, then… Shit. If he didn’t I may just sneak back to the car and hide in it until Christmas is over.

Feeling as though I had to choose something special for him because he always puts so much effort into his gifts -- while simultaneously ruing the fact that anything he could possibly ever want has already been given to him by Faith -- I ended up, in desperation, painting a climbing rosebush on the back leg of a pair of black leather trousers and having the design embroidered over by a lovely old lady who, I’m sure, thought I was getting it done for a popstar. Whether he’ll wear them or not is anyone’s guess but, seriously, it reached the point where I just couldn’t come up with anything else that struck me as even halfway decent. Aya -- who’s got him a first edition of ‘La Chatte’, autographed by Colette herself, and who’s perfectly blasé about the ease in which he managed to decide on this -- says that I didn’t have to make such a fuss, that he’d like anything I got him, but, as far as I’m concerned anyway, I had to put this much effort into it. If I didn’t, especially given the wedding rings around the rose on Asuka’s grave, it just wouldn’t have seemed right.

“Of course I got them,” Ken retorts just a tad huffily, pushing me out of his way so he can get to the cupboard behind me. “Got them yesterday, actually. Oh. If you want to wrap them I’ve hidden them in the storeroom in the cupboard with the spare vases in it.”

“You mean you didn’t wrap them?” I reply facetiously, affecting a hurt expression as I walk over to the table in order to get out of Ken’s way. “Damn, Ken. I was *counting* on you.”

“Bite me,” Ken retorts cheerfully, returning to the table to read the recipe again. “If you must know the damn things have caused me enough trouble as it is. So, you know, don’t push your luck.”

“Huh? You found her shop no trouble, didn’t you?” I murmur, not quite sure as to what Ken’s getting at here and hoping for clarification. “I thought my directions were pretty clear.”

Shaking his head, Ken snorts and carries his cookbook over to place on the bookstand by the stove. “It wasn’t finding the damn place that was the problem,” he mutters. “No. It’s the fact that they stuffed up my carefully planned and organized gifts that’s the problem. If you’d been home when I got back yesterday I would have hit you with them.”

“You… ah… *are* going to explain just what the hell it is you’re blithering on about, aren’t you?” I query, looking at Ken blankly. “I *know* I’m tired from all the driving I’ve done today, but, *huh*? Nothing you just said makes any sense to me.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Ken murmurs dismissively, turning around and resting his back against the bench. “Without wanting to spoil the surprise here, I had vouchers bought for everyone as their present. You know, Harrods for Michel, ‘cos nowhere else seems to stock the odd clothes he seems to like, Dixons for Yuki, ‘cos they get all the cool games and all that other technological shit that seems to light his fire, and, well, Waterstones for the rest of you, ‘cos, thank God, you all seem to like books.”

Shaking my head, I rub my temples and gaze across at Ken with what I just know has to be complete confusion in my eyes. “This is fascinating, Ken, but, well, what’s it got to do with the pants?”

“I was *getting* to that,” Ken states with a sigh. “On the way back to the car after picking them up, I passed this shop that had a shirt in the window that matched the color of the roses perfectly and…” Pausing, Ken blushes and quickly turns back to the cookbook. “Oh. Okay. Although I already had the voucher for him, I went in and bought it for Chloé. It wasn’t that expensive, and it’s not by one of those poncy labels he likes so much, but… but, ah, shit, I… I’ve got it now and he can give it to Missy to sleep on for all I fucking well care!” 

“I’m sure he’ll love it,” I murmur, amused by Ken’s apparent embarrassment at having been bit by the sudden urge to buy something specifically for Chloé but knowing, not if I don’t want fireworks going off in the kitchen, that I have to hide it. “I mean, you know, the thought that went into it and…”

“Thought my ass,” Ken mutters, cutting me off as he keeps his attention focused solely on the cookbook. “If I hadn’t seen it in the window I never would have gone into the shop, and…” Trailing off, he gives a weary shrug. “You’ve seen what he’s got Aya, yeah?”

“Yeah… I have…” 

“It’s incredible, isn’t it? Not just the picture itself, but, well, that he’d even think of getting it. Aya… Man, he’s gonna freak…”

“In a good way, though,” I reply softly, finishing my coffee and placing the empty cup down on the table. “Actually, I don’t know about you but I’m looking forward to his reaction.”

“Mmm… Me too,” Ken responds, turning back around and, his embarrassment already a thing of the past, grinning cockily at me. “What do you reckon, huh? Tomorrow might just be fun…”

“I think so,” I agree, sneaking a quick glance at my watch. “What it will also be is here in fifteen minutes. Shit. Hey, Ken, would you mind if I left you to… whatever it is you’re making? I need to wrap a few more presents and…”

“Go already,” Ken states, smiling as he waves towards the door. “Given how I know I’m not at the top of your list of people to see, I think you’ve done pretty well to stick around with me for as long as you have.”

“Ken, I…” Damn. Am I *that* obvious?

“If you were going to apologize, forget it,” Ken murmurs, picking up a wooden spoon and pointing it at me threateningly. “I know you, Yohji, and I know how much the other two mean to you. Um… Actually… You don’t have to answer this if you don’t want to, but, well, you’re the only one I’m game enough to ask…”

“Is it working?” I murmur, taking as guess as to Ken’s question and getting in first. “Is that what you’re wanting to know?”

“Yeah…” Blushing again, Ken lowers the wooden spoon and stares down at it. “I know it’s none of my business but I’ve known you and Aya for so long now and, Chloé, you know, despite being odd he’s okay too, and…”

Taking pity on Ken, whom I’ve never heard sound so flustered before, I walk over and close my hand around his shoulder. “It’s working. Trust me. It’s not what anyone ever expected, but it’s definitely working.”

“Good.” Looking relieved, Ken lifts his head and grins. “I’m still very much of the ‘rather you than me’ opinion, but, good. I’m glad. Now, go, get out of my kitchen. I’m just going to mix the pudding before doing a token clean up and crashing myself.”

“Mmm…” Releasing Ken, I contemplate giving him a hug but the angle he’s holding the wooden spoon at kind of puts me off the idea and I settle for giving his cheek a quick kiss instead. “Goodnight, Ken. Although it’s still a quarter of an hour away, merry Christmas.”

“And it is too,” Ken replies, returning to the bench, his attention once again captivated by the cookbook, “a merry Christmas, that is. Regardless of all the shit that’s gone down over the past few months, things, I think, are looking up. So, ‘night, Yohji. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Accepting that I’ve already lost Ken to his cooking, I slip out of the kitchen and make my way down the stairs into the storeroom. Retrieving the leather pants from the cupboard, I take them out of their bag and unfold them. Despite needing to have what I wanted explained to her four times and looking at me as though I was mad or pulling her leg, the old lady has done a marvelous job of embroidering my design -- vivid red bud roses against a bush of dark green -- and I make a note to send her a thank you card after Christmas.

Folding the trousers back up, I place them on the table next to the bag I’d put there earlier and look around for something to wrap with. Not having thought to buy wrapping paper and not wanting to tear the house apart looking for some for fear of waking everyone up, I decide that the tissue paper we use to wrap the flowers in will just have to do and wander into the store to get it. While I’m there I retrieve the sticky tape from its home under the counter and carry both it and the sheets of paper back to the table. Not having either a pen or a tag to write on, I then head straight back into the shop and help myself to a pen and a couple of delivery cards.

Lacking both the time and inclination to do a proper job of my wrapping, I quickly wrap the trousers in three different colored sheets of tissue paper before pushing them aside and pulling the small box containing Aya’s gift out of the bag. Although I’ve still got my doubts about the exquisitely tiny crystal cat -- and whether or not this is the sort of thing Chloé was meaning when he cryptically murmured that I should get Aya something ‘small, shiny, and feline’ isn’t something I know the answer to -- it’s going to have to do now and I hope Aya just accepts it with a forced smile and *doesn’t* ask if I was feeling all right when I bought it. It’s *not* exactly Aya’s sort of thing, I know that, but, I don’t know, when I saw it in the window of the antique store in Glasgow something stirred in me and I just had to buy it. 

Biting back a sigh, I wrap the cat in tissue paper and, after scrawling on a couple of cards, pick the two presents up and head for the stairs. Like the state of the Audi, I decide the scraps of paper and empty bag on the table can wait for another day and meander down the corridor to the living room. Entering it, I put the light on so as not to trip over anything and walk over to the elaborately decorated Christmas tree set up next to the television. Unlike the purple monstrosity in the store, everything on this tree is gold and silver and the overall effect is one of understated elegance. Even the carefully arranged piles of presents under it look as though they wouldn’t be out of place in the window display of a department store.

Placing my shabby looking presents behind the far more nicely wrapped gifts I’d bought for the others before leaving on my orienteering jaunt, I notice a soft looking present leaning against the base of the tree that is also wrapped in tissue paper from the shop and know that it has to be the shirt Ken was telling me about. Laughing quietly to myself, I straighten up and, turning the light off as I go, leave the living room.

My tasks completed, a skip enters my step as I climb the stairs to the second floor. Although Ken didn’t specify *which* bedroom Aya herded Chloé into, I decide to check his out first, the thought that they mightn’t actually be still together not even entering my mind. While there’s nothing set in stone about our sleeping arrangements -- since coming back from Tokyo I’ve been sleeping with Aya in his room just because I can and because it’s how things were before we went away -- I fully expect Aya to have gravitated to Chloé (or vice versa) in my absence and this isn’t something I have any sort of problem with. As I said to Aya at Souzou, I both like and take comfort from knowing he has someone else who he trusts and can turn to. Given though that there’s still a few uncrossed boundaries circling Chloé in particular, I’m not too sure about what, if anything, will happen when Aya has to go off somewhere by himself and we’re left together, but, as with everything, that bridge will be crossed when we come to it. 

The night we spent in the apartment by the Thames having reiterated it though, we’re perfectly capable of sleeping together in one bed and, wanting to make up for the six nights I’ve spent away, I hope that’s what’s going to happen tonight. Only without the underlying sense of pain and grief to go with it, of course. *That*, and I know I’m not speaking solely for myself here, I can live without. Still, the sour taste of Shillinger’s perversions aside, the night when all is said and done ended on a reasonable high. Well, that is from a comfort point of view anyway. 

Proving what I’ve known all along, Aya -- when he puts his doubts behind him and just *acts* -- is a natural in doing the right thing to look after those he cares about. He just has to go with his instinct and, so long as he doesn’t deviate, I honestly don’t think he’d be capable of putting a foot wrong. With Aya’s silent prompting we ended leaving the shower only to pull on pajamas before tumbling into bed. While I’m sure it would have been uncomfortable if any one of us had fallen prey to even the slightest of doubts, somehow, because no one was thinking just of themselves and whether what they were doing was right or not, it was just… natural. Not sexual or even forced, just natural.

Nice, too.

Smiling at the memory of sleeping next to Chloé while knowing Aya was contently snuggled up against his other side, I reach the bedroom and, finding the door ajar, gently push it open and walk in. As I’d -- hoped -- expected, Aya is sitting up in bed reading while next to him, all but fully buried under the comforter, is a Chloé-sized lump with a smattering of Chloé-colored hair just visible on the pillow. Seemingly coming down from her catnip inspired high, Tantomile is sprawled across Aya’s chest, her ears in line with the bottom of his book which he’s having to hold up high in order to be able to read it.

“Hey there, gorgeous,” I whisper, sneaking into the room and crouching down next to Aya as he slips his bookmark into his book and places both it and his glasses on the bedside table. “Miss me?”

“A little,” Aya murmurs, carefully shifting Tantomile down to the foot of the bed before leaning forward for a kiss. “Mmm…” he continues, smiling and ruffling my hair as he pulls back from the slow and passionate kiss I was only too happy to supply him with. “Perhaps a little more than a… little.” Pausing, his smile changes to a scowl. “Even if you do happen to taste like an ashtray.”

“Trust me, if you’d been caught in the traffic I was in you’d have been driven -- no pun intended -- to smoke too,” I reply, standing up and stretching. “Any news you’re just dying to tell me or can it all wait until tomorrow? Seeing the pair of you in bed, I’m suddenly beat.”

“Given the timetable Michel expects us to stick to, anything I have to tell you -- not, incidentally that I can think of anything off the top of my head -- will have to wait until the day after tomorrow at the earliest anyway,” Aya responds drily, covering a yawn behind his hand. “Why don’t you shower and come to bed? I’m not joking when I say tomorrow is going to be flat out. The second the dishes are done from lunch we’re rolling out and heading straight down to the castle for yet more… festivities…”

“You say that with such delight in your voice,” I retort, leaning over and giving Aya’s cheek a kiss. “The shower idea sounds good though.”

“Clean your teeth while you’re in the bathroom too,” Aya murmurs, reaching for his book and glasses as, purring to herself, Tantomile curls into a ball by his feet. “Oh, and Yohji? I *am* glad you’re back…”

“That makes two of us,” I smile, backing away from the bed and heading into the en suite. My arrival clearly having been expected, a clean white t-shirt and a fresh pair of my boxers are waiting for me on the vanity unit and, because I’m obviously over tired and running out of steam, the sight of them gives me a warm fuzzy feeling of being wanted.

There being nothing other than the call of personal hygiene to keep me in the bathroom, I shower quickly, dry myself, get dressed, and clean my teeth in five minutes flat. And, yes, I think it is some sort of record for me.

Returning to the bedroom, I see that Chloé has rolled over and molded himself around Aya and, taking this as a sign that he’s near waking, grin happily. Sitting down on the edge of the mattress, I ignore the -- ‘leave him alone’ -- look Aya gives me and, leaning over the redhead, lightly stroke his hair back from his forehead. “Chloé-kins,” I whisper in a singsong voice, “you awake?”

“Yohji!” Aya hisses, grabbing a handful of my t-shirt and using it to haul me back. “Leave Chloé alone, he’s…”

“Awake now,” I interrupt triumphantly as Chloé’s eyes blink open and he peers at me sleepily. “Sorry, but I just wanted to make sure he was alive…”

“Yohji?” Chloé murmurs, yawning as he drags himself into a sitting position. “I’m so glad you’re back. Things just aren’t quite the same when you’re not around.”

“You know,” I reply, risking Aya’s wrath by leaning over him again to give Chloé a quick kiss, “you’re the first person to actually say nice things to me without being nasty first. Ken went off at me for letting the cats out of the garage, Aya *begrudgingly* muttered something about missing me a *little*… Hell, why can’t everyone be as nice as you?”

“Because if everyone was like me life would be incredibly boring,” Chloé responds, stifling another yawn. “Now, seeing as you’re back I should leave you two to it and go back to my room,” he continues, making to throw back the comforter.

“Leave us to what exactly?” I query as, frowning, Aya drops his book and, snaking his hand out, bats Chloé’s hand away from the bedding. “Aya, a question for you… If Chloé leaves are my chances of getting any going to increase?”

“Not one single iota,” Aya retorts, flashing me a relieved, grateful smile. “I’m tired, I’ve got more Christmas cheer staring me in the face than I know what to do with, and *no one’s* getting any. So, really, Chloé, unless you’re wanting to get away from Yohji’s snoring, you may as well stay.”

“But… Are you sure?” Chloé murmurs, hesitating over settling back down again and fixing his gaze on me. “Yohji?”

“If you leave you’re only going to make us follow you,” I reply, picking Aya’s book off his lap and, after slipping in the bookmark, returning it to the bedside table. “So, go on, lie back down and go back to sleep.”

“Mmm… If you insist,” Chloé whispers, waiting until Aya’s settled himself before dutifully doing as he’s told and lying back down. “Well… Good night.”

“Good night,” I murmur, pleased that it took so little to convince Chloé to stay and, switching the lamp off, stretching out on the mattress. Pulling the bedding up as he whispers his own good nights, I reach for Aya and, like Chloé, arrange myself around him. While he mightn’t want to, a small purr of approval escapes his lips at the position he’s in and, courtesy of everything being right with my world, within what feels to be mere seconds I’m fast asleep.

~*~*~*~*~

“I’d make the most of that, if I were you,” Chloé murmurs, strolling past me as I sit enjoying my smoke at the outdoor setting, Tantomile clutched to his chest and clinging contentedly to his shoulder. “Seven more sleeps, you know…”

“Seven more sleeps to *what*?” I query, swiveling around in my chair and watching Chloé as he pauses by the tree to smirk at me.

“Seven more sleeps until your New Year’s Resolution to cut back on your smoking kicks in,” Chloé replies, giving a delicate, unbothered shrug as he scratches Tantomile under her chin. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten.”

“Ah…” Blowing a smoke ring, I lean back in my seat and sigh. “Do you think Aya will remember?”

“Asking me whether I think Aya will remember is like asking me whether I believe spring follows winter,” Chloé retorts, giving me pitying look. “Of *course* he’ll remember. What’s more, I fully expect he’ll hold you to it too.”

“Mmm… Me and my big mouth,” I murmur, taking another drag on my cigarette and watching the smoke spiral up into the dull blue sky. “I only said cut back though, didn’t I, not *quit*?”

“Cut back,” Chloé confirms, earning himself a low hiss of disapproval from Tantomile as he stops scratching her chin in order to pull his car keys out of his pocket. “Mind you, given the rate you go through them, that isn’t going to be easy either.”

Stubbing my butt out, I sit up and coyly flick Chloé the finger. “Thanks for the words of confidence,” I drawl. “You’ll see. I’ll show you all and cut back no problem. It’ll be a piece of cake.”

Well, that is, I *hope* it will be.

Shaking his head, Chloé gives me another pitying look and begins to walk towards the garage. “On the off chance you’d like to make yourself useful,” he states over his shoulder, “you could always go back inside and hunt down Aya. If we don’t get going soon Michel’s going to no doubt blame us for ruining Christmas.”

“If our getting to the castle a little later than he would have liked ruins Michel’s Christmas then, I’m sorry, I think he set his expectations a little too high,” I reply, dragging myself to my feet and stretching. “But, hey, I’m on to it. Find Aya and tell him to get his ass down to the car, yeah?”

“While they wouldn’t be the exact words I would have used, yes, that’s the gist of it,” Chloé responds, opening the door to the garage before turning around to face me. “Oh… While you’re inside, make sure you get your gloves to bring with you,” he adds mildly, referring to the fine leather driving gloves he’d bought me for Christmas. “I was telling Mihirogi about the quality of the leather and she’d like to see them.”

Snorting, I mock salute Chloé and begin to walk towards the back door. “And there I was thinking for a second you were going to let me drive,” I mutter with a laugh. “Silly me, huh?”

“Delusional, more like,” Chloé retorts. “Now, scoot. If Aya’s not out here by the time I’ve managed to find Mystique then Michel’s not going to be the only one to feel tetchy. Last seen he was on the second floor, so you might want to check his bedroom first.”

“I’m sure he can’t have got too far,” I murmur to myself under my breath as I walk through the storeroom and head up the stairs. Taking Chloé’s suggestion as to where to find him as fact, I don’t bother detouring along the first floor corridor and meander straight for Aya’s room.

“Hey, Aya? You around?” I call out as I step on to the second floor landing. “Chloé’s threatening to get tetchy if you don’t get a move on. So, come on, move!”

Receiving no response to this, I frown as an inkling of concern settles over me and hurry along the corridor to Aya’s room. The door already open, I step straight into the room and find Aya standing in front of his bookcase. Wearing his coat and with his gloves in his hands, it’s clear that he’s ready to go and, walking over to him, I wonder what exactly it is that’s keeping him.

“Aya?” I whisper questioningly, joining him by the bookcase and looking at him expectedly. “You okay? If you’ve eaten too much or want to have a rest before going then I’m sure both Chloé and Michel would…”

“I’m fine,” Aya interrupts softly, slipping his gloves into his pocket and gesturing towards the bookcase. “I… I just…”

Following the line of his hand, I see the reason for Aya’s dawdling and gently place my arm around his shoulders. “It’s amazing, isn’t it,” I murmur, using my free hand to trace a line along the freshly cleared off bookshelf that’s now holding the honor of housing his Christmas presents from both Chloé and myself. “I bet you never expected you’d ever get something like this…”

“No, never…” Pausing, Aya reaches out and wafts his hand across the front of the silver picture frame Chloé insisted I help pick out for the photo. “I remember this picnic,” he states quietly, his eyes fixed on the picture. “I was eight and Aya-chan was six. Because the annual company picnic was such a big deal we had new, special clothes for it and everything. All of us. Even mother and father. See Aya-chan’s white shoes? She’d wanted black patent leather ones and was in a sulk for the entire picnic because mother had refused to buy them for. This… for the photographer… was the only time she smiled all day. Other than her petulant mood though, it was a good day. I… I remember it fondly.”

“You miss her?” I question, singling out his sister to ask about because she at least is still alive and wishing Chloé was here to witness Aya’s true reaction to the photograph. While he’d smiled and said appreciative things this morning in the living room when he opened it, I knew then that he was struggling to hide his shock and that, sooner or later, he’d have to find an outlet for it. No matter how good you are at concealing your emotions you can’t receive something you’d accepted as forever lost to you without being touched by it. You just can’t. Not even if you’re Aya and have made an art form out of repressing your emotions.

“Not knowing the woman she is now, no, I can’t say that I do miss her,” Aya replies softly, dropping his hand to rest by the small crystal cat he’s placed by the side of the frame. “She has her own life and it is better that I am not a part of it. I… regret… not having been able to see her grow up, but the Aya-chan I knew is distant to me now. This photo though, I… I am pleased to have it as the life captured in it is distant to me too.”

“You were a cute child,” I tease, wanting to lift the mood a little and hugging Aya to me. “Look at you. What happened, huh?”

Stiffening, Aya pulls away from me and, his hand still by the cat, shrugs. “First Takatori and then Kimura, that’s what happened to me,” he responds, smiling wanly. “Do not worry, Yohji. You didn’t say anything wrong. It’s just how it is. I am here though and I happen to… like… here, so, please, let’s move on. The cat… Do you know it’s the twin of the one you gave me at Souzou, the one I accidentally broke the night we…” Trailing off, Aya backs away from the bookcase and goes to stand by the foot of the bed.

“I… I don’t deserve this, you know, this effort and kindness,” he adds faintly, lowering his head and staring down at the carpet. “Why, Yohji? What do you and Chloé possibly see in me? I can’t even thank you properly for your lovely… *thoughtful*… gifts and… I just… I just wish I knew why you both bother with me…”

“Hey, shhh… What’s this rubbish you’re spouting off with, huh?” Alarmed by the Aya’s slumped shoulders and suddenly flaky mood, I walk over and position myself directly in front of him. “Come on, my love, I don’t want to hear this sort of bollocks from you,” I state firmly, wrapping my arms around Aya’s waist and drawing him to me. “We love you not because of the gifts you give but because of the person you are. We love you, Aya, for *you*. Your kindness, your… issues… everything, we love the whole intricate package.”

Shaking his head, Aya relaxes against me and clutches his hands into the front of my coat. “But… I’m sorry, Yohji. I don’t under…”

“But that’s just it,” I interrupt, kissing the top of his head, “there’s nothing *to* understand. Love isn’t simple. You can’t pigeonhole it or conveniently label it and you sure as fuck can’t make sense of it. It’s just… Hell, love just *is*! It’s special and maddening and exquisite and confusing and messy…”

“And quite capable of inducing flights of verbal fantasy in a person,” Aya murmurs with just a touch of dryness in his voice as he rests his head on my shoulder. “I think I’m sorry for ever having said…”

“Ah!” On a roll now, I place my finger across his lips and give a quick shake of my head. “I hadn’t finished! What was that comment of Free’s that Chloé shared with us the other night? Neither question…”

“Nor doubt. Just accept,” Aya finishes, sliding his hands under my coat and wrapping his arms around my back. “It’s a lovely sentiment, isn’t it…”

“It’s more than a lovely sentiment, it’s *fact*,” I reply. “Now, come on. We’ve got to get a move on. Chloé and yet more Christmas cheer awaits.”

“Mmm…” Releasing me, Aya plants a fleeting kiss on my cheek and, his mood having clearly been restored, wanders out of the room. “Come on then. If we’re not careful Michel will take our lateness as a personal insult and see to it that we’re locked out of the castle. While I hate to say it, given how much effort he’s put into today I wouldn’t actually put it past him.”

Laughing, I follow Aya into the corridor and together we walk towards the landing. “He’d only do it once.”

“And you’d do *what* exactly to retaliate?” Aya queries, glancing at me over his shoulder as he starts down the stairs. “No. On second thoughts, I don’t want to know and think we should just concentrate on hurrying up a little.”

Common sense telling me that casually informing Aya that he’s the reason we’re behind schedule *wouldn’t* be the way to go, I bound down the stairs and, as Aya holds the back door open for me, quickly turn on the alarm system. “Ready for more fun and games?” I grin, checking that the back door is locked before catching up to Aya and walking by his side across the courtyard to the garage.

“You mean am I ready for yet more food, more smiling vacuously, and finding more ways to politely say, no, there’s no fucking way I’m wearing the paper hat out of the cracker?” Aya mutters, sighing as he opens the door and steps into the garage. “If so, the answer is absolutely. Bring it on. I’ve survived half a day of it and I’m confident I can get through the rest of it.”

“That’s the spirit,” Chloé interjects cheerfully, leaning against the open driver’s side door of the Mercedes and tapping pointedly on his watch. “Now, are we ready to be on our way? I’ve already had one phone call from Michel checking on our whereabouts and, if it’s all the same to you, I really think I can live without getting another one.”

“I think we’re ready, don’t you, Yohji?” Aya replies, his attention focused, thankfully, on pulling his gloves out of his pocket and not on bothering to check out the condition of his Audi.

“Oh shit yeah, ready and waiting,” I smirk as I begin to walk towards the Mercedes. “Well? What are we waiting for? Let’s roll.”

“Did you remember to pick up your gloves?” Chloé queries, pulling his own out of his pocket and placing them on the roof of the car. “Unless they’re in your coat, I have to say that I’m not seeing them…”

“Ah…” Ooops. “They’re… um… still on my bed,” I mutter, trying my best to disarm the look Chloé’s giving me with a flirtatious grin. “Sorry.”

Unmoved by the look he’s falling under, Chloé sighs and gestures towards the door. “Well, go on. What are you waiting for? Unless you want me to take Aya on a detailed tour of all the damage done to the Audi, you may wish to get a move on…”

A frown replacing the expression of mild amusement he’d been sporting, Aya glances at the Audi before giving me a suspicious look. “Yohji?”

“Don’t think I won’t get you back for this,” I mutter, wagging my finger at Chloé as he toys with his gloves. “Now, just wait there. I’ll be back with the damn gloves before you even realize I’m gone.” 

“You’ve got sixty seconds or you’ll be walking to Kent,” Chloé retorts, sidling around the back of the Mercedes to join Aya by the Audi. “Go!”

Not particularly wanting to hear whatever Aya sees fit to say about the small rubbish dump contained within his car, I jog across the courtyard and, after unlocking the door and deactivating the alarm, bolt up the stairs to my room. Retrieving the -- apparently essential -- gloves from the pile of presents on the foot of my bed, I spin around and quickly retrace my steps. 

Arm the security system, lock and check the back door, push all thoughts of risking life and limb by lighting up one last smoke before the drive to the back of my mind, and, panting, crash back through the door into the garage.

Done. Easy!

The triumphant exclamation of success I’d been planning on sharing -- ‘am I fast or am I *fast*!’ -- dying on my lips, I come to an abrupt stop and stare in amazement at the unexpected image in front of me. Instead of going over the Audi with a fine tooth comb or standing, scowling, by the door in wait for me, Aya is sitting on the boot of the Mercedes, his spread legs wrapped around Chloé’s thighs as the blond, his hands resting behind Aya’s back, stands in front of him. Despite their somewhat odd position, they appear to be embracing. Both have taken their coats off in anticipation of getting into the car and, because they’re pretty much directly in my line of sight, I can’t help but appreciate -- amongst other things -- how good the leather trousers I’ve given Chloé look on him. The climbing rose runs evenly up his leg and, just as Ken hoped, the red of his shirt -- which, just as I knew he would, he put on immediately -- matches the roses perfectly.

Hoping I’m not interrupting something, I lightly clear my throat and make the snap decision to follow the well traveled and established route of ‘if in doubt, facetiousness works every time’. “So,” I state airily, walking further into the garage, “are we going to Kent or have the pair of you decided here is both the time and the place to, you know, consummate our relationship?”

Sitting up a little straighter, Aya glances over Chloé’s shoulder and gives me what I hope is only a *mock* baleful look. “If you must know,” he drawls, “Chloé’s actually trying to hold me back in order to stop me from killing you for what you’ve done to my car.”

“Oh, in that case, let me come a little closer just to taunt you,” I murmur, smirking as I slip my gloves into the pocket of my jeans and press myself up against Chloé’s back. “Is that better? Can you reach me now?”

Sighing, Chloé relaxes against me and gives a small shrug. “Why is it that I always find myself in the middle when you two have decided you want to argue about something?”

“*This*? This isn’t arguing,” Aya replies, carefully unfolding one leg from around Chloé in order to stretch it around my thigh, effectively linking us all together. “Trust me. If we were really fighting you’d know about it.”

“Hmm… Now, why doesn’t that exactly fill me with confidence,” Chloé smiles, tilting his head back and giving me a cinnamon scented kiss on the cheek. “As pleasant as this is, don’t you think we should perhaps be getting into the car and getting out of here?”

“If we have…” Trailing off as, in the back window of the Mercedes, just to the left of Aya’s head, Mystique suddenly appears and promptly extends her back leg in the air in order to groom her nether regions, I start to laugh hard enough to have to release Chloé and take a step back. “I think we may have just been told,” I snicker, gesturing at the window as, taking Chloé’s proffered hand, Aya allows himself to be helped off the boot. “Check it out. I don’t think she was exactly appreciative of our little display.”

Following the line of my hand, Chloé looks at his cat and snorts. “I think you may be right,” he murmurs, shaking his head and walking around to the driver’s side. “Delightful creature, is she not?”

“She probably just thinks we should be jealous because we can’t lick ourselves like that,” I retort, reaching out and batting Aya lightly on the ass to get him moving.

“Oh.” Pulling his gloves on, Chloé looks at me across the roof of the Mercedes, his expression one of obviously feigned concern. “You mean to tell me that you… can’t?”

“Chloé!” Aya exclaims, shifting out of the reach of my hand and opening the front passenger door. “There are times when I honestly think you two are as bad as each other. Failing that, one of you, and I’m not even entirely sure which one, is a bad influence on the other.”

“It’s a good job then that we’ve got you to keep us in line,” I reply sweetly, winking at Aya as, unable to maintain his voice of reason and decency, he shakes his head and starts to laugh.

“You have an answer for everything, don’t you?” Aya mutters, his laughter petering out as he glances towards the Audi. “Oh, and incidentally, I *had* been going to let you travel in the front until I saw the sad and sorry state of my car. Now, however, it’s the back for you all the way. You may, if you’ve got any brains, wish to plan what you’re going to do to clean and fix it while we travel.”

“I can explain,” I respond, opening the back door. “Besides, it’s not as bad as…”

“I don’t want an explanation,” Aya replies, leaning over the door and cupping my cheek in the palm of his hand. “What I want is a promise that by the next time I want to use it it’s going to be in the same pristine condition it was in when I gave you the keys.”

“Done,” I smile, tilting my head against his hand as Chloé climbs into the car, gently pulling the door shut behind him. “Aya? Is everything…”

“About before in the bedroom,” Aya whispers, stroking his fingers down my cheek as he stands back and prepares to get into the car. “I’m sorry, okay? I never meant to worry you. It’s just… I was just feeling a little overwhelmed, that’s all.”

“Forget it,” I state, quickly reaching out and giving Aya’s shoulder a squeeze. “So long as you’re feeling better now then that’s all that matters to me.”

“I’m fine,” Aya confirms, settling himself in the front seat. “Come on. Chloé’s right. We really do have to get moving.”

“Boss, boss, boss,” I grin, climbing into the backseat and, after shrugging out of my coat and throwing it on the floor behind the driver’s seat, pulling the door shut. Pleased that the day once again seems to be going well, I pull the seatbelt on and, as Chloé starts the car and drives it out of the garage and into the street, make myself comfortable. Once I’m settled, I glance to my left and, having forgotten all about Mystique sprawled out in the back window, groan at the sight of Tantomile sitting on the pile of Aya’s and Chloé’s coats. 

“Shit! You’ve got to be freakin’ kidding me,” I complain as, stretching, Tantomile undulates over and climbs onto my lap. “Chloé? What gives with the Terrible Twosome roaming free, huh? Shouldn’t they, you know, be in their cages or, better yet, in the boot?”

Raising his eyebrow in the rear vision mirror at me for my slur against the cats, Chloé gives a small shrug. “It’s Christmas,” he replies matter-of-factly as, her tail switching from side to side, Tantomile places her front paws on the door frame and stares out the window. “Don’t worry, Yohji, they’ll be as good as gold. While, yes, I *could* have put them in their boxes, they only would have expressed their displeasure at this by singing the feline equivalent of Jingle Bells all the way down to the castle so, really, I thought I was doing everyone a favor by leaving them loose.”

“Oh. Uh-huh,” I murmur, accepting without question that, yes, if any cats *were* to sing Christmas carols it would most definitely be these two and resigning myself to my lap no doubt housing Tantomile all the way to Kent. I mean, why sit on a padded leather car seat or a coat when there’s a perfectly acceptable and warm lap just going to waste? “You sure you wouldn’t like to swap places though and I could drive while you entertained them in the back?”

“Positive,” Chloé responds, turning around to quickly flash an amused, unbothered smile at me. “The pair of you do look *most* cute sitting there having your spot of togetherness like that. If only I had a camera…”

“If you don’t pay more attention to the road *I’ll* be the one doing the driving,” Aya interjects, tapping his finger on the steering wheel. “As for you, Yohji, it was either the cats or Michel sharing the backseat with you so, really, I don’t think you’ve got anything to complain about at all.”

Gee. What a peachy choice. Two certifiable felines or a hyper teenager who’s overdosed on all things Christmassy and who’s probably going to be passed out by eight o’clock from sheer exhaustion. “Er… Perhaps when you put it like that…”

“Mmm… If I were you I’d sit back and make the most of the peace and quiet of the drive because it’s only going to start all over again once we reach the castle,” Aya murmurs, opening the glove box and, after a few seconds of pushing CDs around, pulling out one that appeals to him and slipping it into the CD player. “Here. Just for you, Yohji,” he continues as some unidentifiable classical music begins to softly fill the car’s interior, “some music to relax by.”

Taking the music as Aya’s coded request for -- in regards to talking, anyway -- silence, I lean back in the seat and, as Tantomile curls into a ball on my lap, close my eyes. Although I can’t say I know it, the music is both inoffensive and delicate and, the full-on nature of the day suddenly catching up with me, I can feel it beginning to lull me to sleep. Not really wanting to doze off -- well, not until we’re out of London at least -- I try to stave it off by concentrating on the day we’ve had so far and how… *wonderful*… it’s been.

Without wanting to deviate into -- like, oh my *God*! -- gushing territory here, it would take a disaster of near on monumental proportions to actually bring the day’s rating down to anything less than perfect. Admittedly, given the high note I woke up to this morning, I may be biased and not everyone may share my opinion, but I’m so happy with how things have been going so far that I’m actually finding it impossible to find fault with the day.

Good moods, good times, good friends, good food, good presents… Seriously, it’s just *all* good. 

I didn’t even mind the hour we spent, because it was in Michel’s schedule of ‘events’ and because no one currently has it in them to argue with him, attending mass. The pastor kept his sermon short and to the point, the singing was actually in tune, the babies that were there with their parents kept their crying to a minimum and, yeah, for being stuck in church it was okay. Half of the parishioners attending the service had bought flowers from the shop some time during the year and accepting their well wishes and small talk took almost as long as the mass itself did. Mrs Malone, the kind soul who’d given the cats the catnip yesterday, was also there and, not wanting to hurt her feelings, we all smiled politely and thanked her for her gift without letting on about all the havoc it had caused. While Ken, I’m sure, would have liked to, the pressure being exerted on his arm by Aya’s gloved fingers was enough to convince him otherwise and the poor boy had to resign himself to lying through his teeth like the rest of us.

Again though, after waking up this morning in the middle of the bed, with Aya on one side and Chloé on the other, I think it would take Schuldig parachuting in and landing on the bonnet of the car to actually put a dint in my mood or ruin my day. The answer as to *why* I ended up in the middle isn’t something that has been either asked for or volunteered, but, for some reason, I did, and…

Yeah.

Let’s just say I now know why both Aya was able to wake up in such a reasonable mood after what happened in the workshop in Tokyo and Chloé was able to behave as though nothing had happened the morning after Shillinger’s nauseating display of show and tell at the school. Just… Oh boy. Being used as a pillow by two silk clad bodies would, I’m thinking, have to be just about the *ultimate* in natural highs. An orgasm might be more mind blowing, and naked flesh more sensual, but, even if I *had* had a say in it I wouldn’t have altered a thing. To know that I’m loved and… trusted… enough, well, while it might sound like a cop out, it’s just not something words can adequately describe. If not for a tentative knock on the door and Michel’s plaintive voice asking Aya whether he’d seen Chloé waking them, it’s a position I would have been more than perfectly happy to have remained in for hours. Mystique standing on my chest and peering at me with searing intent notwithstanding, of course. *That* I could have done without. Petty complaint about Mystique no doubt monitoring my intentions towards *her* human aside though, what’s four paws being dug into your chest worth in comparison to otherwise feeling as though you’re on top of the world anyway? 

My fear of Michel’s reaction if we didn’t snap to attention and report for present opening duties being far greater than my fear of pissing Mystique off, I reluctantly roused myself from my lovely warm cocoon in response to his call -- “Come on, come on! It’s Christmas and we’ve got lots and lots of things to fit in today.” -- and without a single word being said about our sleeping arrangements we simply pulled on our robes and padded down to the living room. I think, and whether this seals my fate as that of a hopeless romantic or not isn’t something I particularly care about, it was the… naturalness… of both Aya and Chloé when they woke up that really touched me and reminded me of just how blessed my life is. Instead of blushing or making light of the moment they simply, after good morning kisses were exchanged all round and the obligatory chorus of ‘merry Christmas’ had been shared, got up and went about their business as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened at all. And, I don’t know, this just touches me for some reason, makes me feel… accepted… and wanted.

While it was a struggle to stop myself from grinning dazedly at everyone as we all gathered in the living room to hover around the Christmas tree, I really need not have worried because as the presents were opened and dutifully praised I found myself with fresh cause to grin. Because last Christmas apparently wasn’t worth writing home about at all -- Aya and Yuki had just joined and, by all accounts, were feeling less than sociable let alone *festive*, Chloé was still treating the newcomers with distance and caution, Free was… elsewhere, Ken was miffed that Aya wasn’t overjoyed to be back living with him again, and so on and sob story forth -- Michel was adamant this year was going to make up for it and, leaving no stone unturned, he’d worked hard to ensure the day was as traditional as it possibly could be. 

Presents being opened around the tree before either -- coffee! -- breakfast or getting dressed, torn wrapping paper filling the living room, church, roast lunch followed by rich pudding and brandy custard - if it could be classed as belonging to a traditional English Christmas then we were going to do it. Being a household of men -- assassins, even -- and cats didn’t enter the equation at all as, to Michel, we’re simply his family and that -- family -- is what Christmas is all about.

And, because it’s only one day of the year, everyone’s been doing their utmost best to get with the program, stay in the spirit, and have -- be it forced and begrudging or not -- fun. While blasé to the point of nearly being comatose about Christmas during the lead up to the day, Yuki, now that it’s here, seems almost overwhelmed by it all and I have to confess to having enjoyed watching him try to cope with everything that’s been going on. Aya says -- along with threatening to confiscate my cigarettes if I tease him about his awestruck expression -- that it’s because there’s a good chance this is the first ‘proper’ Christmas Yuki’s ever had and that he simply hadn’t known what to expect, but, whatever, I just think he’s fun to watch.

Although I didn’t mention it at the time, given that I can only remember one other, for all I know it could be my first experience of a proper Christmas too. Ken, in between anxiously watching his turkey in the oven and worrying about whether he’d get the custard right, told me this morning that we’d made an attempt at having an English-style Christmas the year we were at Souzou, but, as with so many things that I’ve now come to accept don’t bother me in the slightest, I can’t remember it at all. 

I can clearly remember the non-event that was Christmas day last year though. Despite having the tree and the presents, Asuka got called in to cover a shift at the hospital and I spent the day camped out in front of the television. We tried, when she finally got home, to still make the day special, but she was too tired and in the end we just gave up even trying and went to bed. While obviously I didn’t know what I do now at the time, it had been during December that Ken had come to collect Aya’s katana from me and by the time Christmas had rolled around our relationship was already in a severe decline. We *had* tried to make an effort though, even if it hadn’t worked out.

Twelve months ago…

Shit. I can hardly believe that it was only twelve months ago that I was feeling sorry for myself and watching my marriage disintegrate. Now look at me. I have… so much… more than I ever imagined possible or, for that matter, conceived. 

And Asuka’s dead. Her reward for having fallen in love with me being to fall prey to Schuldig in a game that never should have been played. If there is a God I hope she’s in a better place and that, should we ever meet again, she can forgive me for what I unwittingly unleashed on her.

Thinking about Asuka causing a shroud of sadness to ghost over me, I murmur a silent prayer that she be at peace and move my thoughts back in the direction of all things Christmas related. All the food I’d eaten at lunchtime adding up to get the better of me though, I then, as I’m still in the process of trying to work out whether there’s some sort of theme happening with the driving gloves from Chloé and the platinum key ring in the shape of a ‘Y’ that Aya gave me, slide off into a light sleep, my head resting against the cool glass of the window.

While not the most comfortable of positions to doze off in, I sleep soundly and don’t wake up until we’re stopped at a set of traffic lights in Canterbury. Yawning and rubbing my eyes, I’m not quite sure why it is I can hear what sounds suspiciously like raucous barking and, sitting up, slowly turn my head to look out the window.

Groaning at the sight of the large and clearly pissed off Alsatian -- who just happens to wearing a really fetching pair of green foam antlers -- as he salivates, barks, and paws at the back passenger window of the dirty white Ford Fiesta we’re parked next to, I shake my head and glance down at my lap. As I’d suspected, both Mystique and Tantomile are using my thigh to brace their back legs against while resting their front paws on the doorframe in order to push their whiskers up against the window and taunt the Alsatian. What’s more, going on the frenzy he’s working himself up into as he throws himself at the window of the Fiesta, I’d say they were doing a pretty damn good job of it too.

“Whatever it is you’re doing to that nasty canine, Yohji, I have to respectfully ask that you stop it,” Chloé murmurs, glancing over his shoulder and pulling a face at the sight of the dog. “Good Lord, what a revolting, feral creature.”

“Which one are you talking about there, the dog or the inbred driver?” Aya queries, lightly tapping his finger on the window. “See? Isn’t he just a picture of charm and grace too? And, look, he’s got a matching set of antlers. How positively… novel.”

Twisting back around and leaning forward in his seat, Chloé glances out of Aya’s window and laughs. “While my lip reading skills are a little rusty, I do not believe the spiel that just fell out of his mouth was to wish us a pleasant Christmas.”

“I actually think it was an invitation to kiss either his ass or his exhaust pipe,” I reply, watching the man, his antlers almost falling off as a result of how violently he turns around, yelling at the Alsatian before flipping us the bird and revving the shit out of his Fiesta. “And, hey, given that the cloud of smoke coming out of the back of his car is an obvious request for a race, I think he may just be daring us.”

“There really is no help for it,” Chloé sighs, returning his attention to the traffic lights, “dog owners really *are* simple individuals. I mean, if he honestly believes he can beat us in *that* then, well, I’m not entirely sure he should even be allowed to have a license.”

“As I’m sure has been said before,” Aya murmurs, scowling at the man -- as he lets loose with another volley of insults -- before calmly settling himself back in his seat, “everyone is entitled to their delusions. Even nasty dog owners with a questionable taste in head accessories.” 

“Well, as I doubt we’ll have the misfortune of encountering him again, you may wish to wave bye-bye to the nice man,” Chloé smiles, doing just that as the lights turn to green and, gently putting his foot down on the accelerator, driving the Mercedes across the intersection. “If he is lucky he and his canine may even manage to make it wherever it is they are going.”

Swiveling around, I look out the back window and laugh. “That, of course, is reliant on him actually making it across the intersection,” I mutter as, having lost the source of their amusement, the cats climb off my lap and wander over to knead the coats. “Which, seeing as that black cloud of smoke appears to be increasing and he’s still sitting there, isn’t something I’d particularly want to hold my breath about.”

“Oh well, while I don’t know him, I’m sure it serves him right for one reason or another,” Chloé responds, glancing in the rear vision mirror and smiling. “I bet you’re glad you woke up when you did, mmm? Otherwise you may have missed seeing him.”

“Like I had much of a choice what with the way the stupid dog was going off at the sight of the cats,” I drawl, running my fingers through my hair and stretching as the becoming increasingly familiar sights of Canterbury fly past the windows. “If, however, they’d been in their cages, then, well, let’s face it, we probably wouldn’t have had to have had *anything* to do with the man.”

“And where would the fun have been in that?” Chloé questions lightly, giving an airy, nonchalant shrug. “Mystique and Tantomile are as entitled to make their own fun as anyone else. Besides, seeing as we’re nearly there it was about time you stopped snoring and woke up anyway.”

“There you go, griping about my… *alleged*… snoring again,” I retort, reaching out and flicking my finger into Chloé’s shoulder. “I didn’t hear you complaining about it either last night or this morning though…”

“And who said I was complaining about it now?” Chloé replies, making a disapproving sound under his breath. “There is, I’ll have you know, a difference between complaining and simply passing comment. Now, in case you require further clarification regarding this point, I was, in this instance, merely stating a fact.”

Laughing, despite having been so eloquently put in my place, I give Chloé’s shoulder another poke and we continue, with Aya occasionally getting in on the act as well, teasing each other until the wreath adorned gates of the castle are in view. We then fall silent as the car glides down the paved drive, each of us lost in our private admiration of the collection of shimmering fairy lights that frame the façade of the castle. Because twilight is already falling, the effect of the lights highlighting the classic structure of the castle is nothing short of breathtaking. While clearly out of place -- and I suspect if its original architect could see his vision now he’d be turning in his grave -- there’s just something about the old of the castle meeting the new of the lights that makes the image worth a lingering glance.

“As much as I lament the continued Americanization of the world in the form of overblown Christmas light displays, I nonetheless have to confess to the castle looking quite beautiful all lit up like that,” Chloé comments with a hint of resignation in his voice as he drives the car into the garage and brings it to a stop next to the Range Rover.

“It’s certainly one of the better displays we’ve seen,” Aya replies, undoing his seatbelt and opening his door. “I just hope Michel doesn’t have hopes of replicating it around the shop next year, that’s all,” he adds, climbing out of the car and stretching.

Opening the door, I remain sitting until the cats have darted across my lap to freedom before slipping off my seatbelt and joining Aya by the back of the Mercedes. “Only you, my love, could look at something as stunning as the castle and immediately start maligning the future,” I murmur, hugging myself in an attempt to ward off the chilly air circulating around the garage. “Shit! It’s freakin’ freezing in here. Come on. Let’s go inside and see if they’ve got the fire going.”

“Of course they’ll have the fire going,” Chloé responds, retrieving the coats from the back seat and draping them across the boot. “Seeing as we’re not going inside just yet though, here, put this on,” he continues, holding out my coat to me. “Aya. Here. You’d better put yours back on too.”

“Mmm…” Taking the coat, Aya glances around the garage and points at a row of unfamiliar cars that are parked along the back wall. “Look. It appears that KR must have guests.”

“Or he’s just been on a car buying spree,” I mutter, forgetting about the fact that I feel as though I’m freezing my butt off for a moment as I look across at the cars. “Mind you, while I can handle the Beamer I’m not too sure what he thinks he needs the Vectra and Mondeo for. I mean, aren’t they just a little, well, you know… *mundane*?”

“Both the Vectra and the Mondeo are hire cars,” Chloé replies, frowning as he casts an appraising eye over the three vehicles. “And, the BMW, you will note, has French plates.”

“A bit odd, isn’t it?” Aya murmurs, shrugging. “I wonder if it perhaps has something to do with a mission…”

Pulling the coat on, I do up the buttons and, suddenly remembering that I’m freezing, bounce up and down on the spot. “Hey, as fascinating as the cars are, let’s get back to more important things,” I state, looking away from Aya and Chloé as they pull their coats on and watching as the others walk into the garage through the door that leads into the house. Something clearly going on here that I’m not party to, they’re all wearing their coats, even Mihirogi, who’s trailing along at the back and, catching Ken’s eye, I shrug. “Mind numbingly obvious question here, *why* exactly can’t we go inside, huh?” 

“Because your Christmas present won’t fit inside, that’s why!” Michel exclaims, hurrying over and slipping his hand into mine. “You’ll see, Yohji. We’re all here in the garage for a reason.”

“You have no idea how relieved that makes me,” I reply, looking down at Michel and finding him beaming up at me with excitement. “But, come on, I thought I’d had all my presents in the living room this morning.”

“As Michel said, it wouldn’t fit inside,” Chloé murmurs, smiling as he walks over to stand behind me. “We just couldn’t help ourselves…”

“Aya? What are Michel and Chloé talking about? You’re meant to be sensible and…” Tailing off, the rest of my plea for clarification dies on my lips as another car is driven into the garage and parked smoothly in front of me.

This car isn’t just any car though. No. It’s a midnight black Jaguar E-Type with a huge metallic silver bow wrapped around its bonnet.

For… me?

“Merry Christmas, Yohji,” Aya states quietly, linking his arm with mine as KR climbs out of the E-Type and throws me the keys. “In order to give poor Mr Smith some peace we had him use his contacts to find one of the antique pieces of junk for you to keep yourself…”

“It even comes complete with your very own membership into Mr Smith’s chapter of the Jaguar Club so that when it stops, which it’s bound to, given its age, you’ll have the people on hand to get it on the road again,” Chloé continues, squeezing my shoulders as I stare down at the keys clutched in my hand in astonishment. “Yohji? What’s the matter? Don’t tell me our little surprise has actually rendered you speechless?”

“I…” Shaking my head, I pull away from both Aya and Chloé and, after taking an unsteady step forwards, turn around to face everyone. “I know you’ll all find this hard to believe,” I murmur, reaching out a hand and stroking it along the smooth lines of the Jaguar’s elongated bonnet, “but, I… I am honestly speechless. This… This is just… Oh my God…”

“Chill, Yohji, it’s just a car,” Ken declares, grinning at me from his position atop the Range Rovers’ bonnet. “An *old* car that, as Chloé just mentioned, is likely to stop on you more frequently than it goes. Personally I think you’d have been better off with something made this century but your two special friends there wouldn’t hear of it.”

Moving closer to the car, Yuki places his hand on the boot and nods to himself. “I think it’s cool,” he murmurs, the unknown sensation of siding with me causing him to blush slightly. “It has… character…”

“Then it is most suited to its new owner,” Free comments, lifting Ken off the Range Rover as though he weighed little more than one of the cats and calmly placing him on the ground. “Would not everyone agree?”

“Character… Broken down… *Old*,” Chloé teases, walking over and giving me a bump with his hip in order to get me to move closer to the car. “Oh, absolutely. I couldn’t agree more.”

“That’s it,” I retort, turning around and dangling the keys in Chloé’s face, “I hope you weren’t harboring any dreams of ever driving it as no way is it going to happen now.”

Giving me another less-than-subtle shove, Chloé laughs. “Like I’d want to drive it anyway. My opinion towards it is the same as the one I have for Mr Smith’s… Lovely to look at but totally impracticable and nowhere near the same league as the Mercedes.”

“You have no soul,” I respond, shaking my head and, finally taking the hint, walking around to the driver’s side and opening the door. Knowing that my audience is expecting it of me, I then, although I’d really like to take the time to savor the moment, sink down into the Jaguar’s leather seat and glide my hands over the steering wheel. While it mightn’t have all the ‘mod cons’ of the other cars -- even the ‘mundane’ Vectra and Mondeo -- there’s just something about the car that feels *right* to me and, as I gaze at the simple instrument panel, I can’t help but feel overwhelmed.

“You like?” Aya queries, crouching down by the open door and placing his hand on my knee. “I know it might seem like a big present but, well, you were needing a car anyway and everyone knew how much you like these silly looking things, so…”

“I… I love it,” I murmur, smiling at Aya as my hands, as though they’ve got a life of their own, continue to slide along the polished wooden steering wheel. “I just never expected it, you know, I never…”

Opening the passenger door, Chloé leans into the car and peers, not, I think, appreciatively, at the dashboard. “Of course you never expected it,” he states with a -- ‘rather you than me’ -- smile. “If you had it wouldn’t have been half as much… *Ah*!”

Sharing a questioning look with Aya as Chloé jumps back and spins around, I quickly get out of the car and, hoping to see what it was that caused Chloé to so abruptly move away, anxiously look across the bonnet. What I see causes me to first gasp and then to grin like a complete idiot. “I think I now know who the cars belong to…” I murmur, watching in open-mouthed amazement as the garage fills with gloriously familiar faces. “Oh my God, Aya, look… They’re all here…”

And by *all* I mean Singapura along with the members of both Rosary and Crashers… They are, quite literally, *all* here. Sing, Faith, Finlay -- who I very much suspect was the one behind Chloé’s sudden retreat from the car -- Jin, Yuushi, Reiichi, Masato, Naru… Rosary are milling around Chloé, Sing and Mihirogi are standing next to each other whispering, pointing, and laughing, Masato’s looking at me as though he already knows there’s a competition size pool table in the castle while Reiichi and Naru stand around looking at a loss, and, because of his reserved nature, Yuushi’s standing a little to the side, his gaze locked unwaveringly on Aya.

“Looks like you’re not the only one to be on the receiving end of an unexpected surprise,” Aya replies, his expression brightening as he hurries around the Jaguar to join his old teammate. “Yuushi! Whatever are you all doing here?”

“We thought we would take you up on your offer of a visit,” Yuushi responds as, after a second’s indecision, he and Aya awkwardly hug. “It is good to see you, Ran. You look well.”

Knowing that it will take the pair of them a couple of minutes to get -- warmed up -- the bland pleasantries out of the way before falling into natural conversation, I hesitate over going across to join them and decide to wander over to Rosary instead. I’ve barely taken two steps though when, breaking away from their mini-reunion, Finlay bounds over and slaps me on the back before continuing across to the E-Type.

“Man, sweet ride,” he drawls approvingly, leaning in the open passenger side door. “I’m guessing they must really like you, huh?”

“Apparently so,” I reply, doing the proud owner thing and walking over to place my hand proprietarily on the car’s roof. “Can’t wait to drive it. I bet she goes like a dream.”

“Oh yeah,” Finlay agrees, straightening up and grinning. “I pet she just *purrs*. But, hey, seeing as I doubt there’s any way you’re going to be allowed to take her out tonight, let’s go join the others. With any luck Chloé’s heart rate will have returned to normal by now and he’ll have stopped wishing considerable ill will towards me.”

Laughing, I shut the Jag’s door and sling my arm around Finlay’s shoulder. “Seeing as I know you’re just feeling smug at having been able to sneak up on him,” I murmur, “you *almost* sounded concerned when you said that. So, congratulations.”

“Like you would have missed an opportunity like that,” Finlay retorts, sliding his arm around my waist and hugging me back. “Christ, is it good to see everyone like this! Oh… Shit! I can’t believe I almost forgot. Merry Christmas, Yohji. I hope you’re having a great one!”

“Trust me, I am,” I smile, pulling away from Finlay and, seeing that she’s walking in my direction, moving towards Singapura. “Oh, and yeah… Merry Christmas to you too.”

“Mmm… Later!” Ruffling Michel’s hair as he passes him, Finlay walks across the garage and leans against the Range Rover next to Ken. “Well, I think the surprise has gone down pretty well, don’t you?”

“Like there was ever a chance it wouldn’t,” Ken snorts, gesturing expansively around the garage. “Hey, Sing! Check it out. Isn’t this like your idea of hell on earth?”

“If I had to try and impart information to you all then, yes, absolutely,” Singapura replies, smiling as she trails her alarming looking bright red -- complete with little Christmas tree decals -- nails down the front of my coat. “In fact, just thinking about it makes my stomach churn and my knees feel all week. As it is though, I’m not here to work and subsequently couldn’t care less what you all do. I thank you, however, Ken, for thinking of me. It was most… kind… of you.”

“That’s Ken all over,” I respond, looking Sing up and down and grinning. “What about you though? Did you miss us all so much that you just had to come visit?”

“Something like that,” Sing smiles, winking at me as she starts to walk over to where Aya is still standing with Yuushi. “Actually, if you must know Crashers extended the invitation and, having nothing better to do with my time, I accepted. Maybe I’m becoming soft in my old age or the festive season has got to me or something but, okay, I am just that little bit pleased to see you all.”

Smirking at Singapura’s begrudging confession, I watch her greet Aya before turning around and all but tripping over Michel. “Ooops. Sorry. I nearly didn’t see you there,” I apologize, translating the wide-eyed look he’s giving me to mean he’s been waiting to chat and crouching down. “So, what’s up? Are you like me in that you don’t know who to talk to first?”

“I have already spoken with everyone,” Michel replies, beaming. “Now I wish to hear your opinion on the car. Do you like it? Mr Smith said to tell you that if there’s anything wrong with it to…”

Indulging Michel as he gives me chapter and verse -- if not its entire life story -- of the car, I listen to him prattling on until, with a loud clap of his hands to get everyone’s attention, KR effectively kills all conversation dead.

“While, gentlemen, I am sorry to interrupt,” he states from his position by the door leading into the house, his cultured British accented voice booming out across the garage, “there is one more surprise to be unveiled. Now, if you would all be so kind as to meet me in the courtyard we can get it out of the way before retiring to the far warmer and comfortable environment of the games room.”

“Oh! I can’t wait to see this!” Michel exclaims, flashing an excited smile at me before running over to grab Free’s hand. “Come on everybody!”

Standing up, I shake my head in bemusement and, as everyone slowly makes their way over to the door, glance over my shoulder in search of Aya. Finding him walking across to join me, I smile and, backing up so that I’m in line with the door, bow. “After you.”

“More surprises,” Aya murmurs, shaking his head and looking just that teeny bit dazed. “What do you think this one might be?”

“Like I’d know,” I reply, linking my arm with Aya’s and leading him out of the garage. “One thing I do know however is that I think we’ll have the bed to ourselves tonight…”

“It’s good to see Rosary again,” Aya responds, any opinions he’s got towards Faith’s relationship with Chloé being kept well hidden. “Crashers too. I just wish we’d known as that way we could have bought gifts.”

“I don’t think they’re here for presents, my love,” I murmur lightly, giving Aya’s neck a quick kiss as, just wanting to *push* a little, I decide to pass another comment in reference to our sleeping arrangements. “Back to tonight though… The beds here, they’re pretty big, right? Well…”

“Yohji!” Pulling his arm away from mine, Aya gives me a disgusted look. “I can’t believe you’d even…”

“But think about it. You know how Ken’s fascinated with Faith’s hair, well, perhaps we’d be able to get an answer for…”

“Yohji! You’re…”

“Incorrigible?” I offer, smiling sweetly as Aya reacts -- with affront -- just as I’d known he would. “Perverted? Delusional?” 

Sighing, Aya plants a light kiss on my cheek before speeding up his pace and walking away from me. “Incorrigible will do,” he states with a laugh over his shoulder. “I see that Faith’s heading back to say hello to you though so, you know, if you’re that interested perhaps you’d like to ask him direct.”

“Aya?” Faith queries, pausing by Aya and looking at him with evident concern. “If there is something I can help you with then, please, do not hesitate to ask.”

“I’m not the one who needs help,” Aya retorts, placing his hand on Faith’s arm and squeezing it before taking off down the corridor at a jog to join the others. “Yohji though… Well, he needs all the help he can get…” 

Ah! That’s it! Clearly too many -- albeit pleasant -- surprises and Aya simply don’t mix. Either that, and this I find hard to believe, Yuushi’s a bad influence on him.

“Yohji?” Looking at me quizzically, Faith waits for me to reach him before continuing. “Have you something you wish to ask me?”

“Never mind,” I mumble, feeling myself blush. “It’s nothing of importance and… uh… if it’s all the same to you I’d quite like to just forget about it.”

“As you wish.” Nodding his easy acceptance, Faith gets in step with me and together we walk down the corridor that will lead us to the back of the house. “Chloé was showing me the trousers you gave him for Christmas,” he murmurs, looking across at me and smiling. “They’re lovely. Did you do the embroidery yourself?”

“Me? Christ, no,” I respond, meeting Faith’s gaze and shrugging. “A nice old lady did all the hard work for me. All I did was paint the design. I… I think he likes them though, which is the main thing.”

“He adores them,” Faith replies, as, reaching the end of the corridor, he opens the back door and waits for me to walk outside. “I am pleased to see that he is happy,” he adds quietly, following me through the door and closing his hand around my shoulder. “In fact, you all seem happy and I am glad that things have all worked themselves out.” Pausing, he takes his hand away and begins to walk across the darkened lawn to where everyone else is already standing around waiting. “Not that I ever thought they wouldn’t…”

“Um…”

“Come on, Yohji!” Michel calls out impatiently, running over and grabbing my hand. “We’re all waiting for you.”

Relieved to have an excuse not to have to answer Faith, I allow Michel to drag me across the lawn without complaint. “Well, I’m here now so, whatever it is we’re waiting for, let’s have it,” I declare, gazing expectantly out into the darkness. “Well? Let’s have it.”

Michel not apparently having been joking about everyone having been waiting for me, he’s barely had time to let go of my hand and scurry back to Free’s side before, with no fanfare whatsoever, the lights are suddenly switched on and our final… surprise… is lit up in front of us.

And, just like all of the others before it, it is absolutely breathtaking.

In the middle of a shallow water feature approximately half the size of our garage in London, a stylized metal sculpture of a phoenix, its skeletal wings outstretched and pointing up to the sky, sits on top of a slab of granite. While illegible to the naked eye from where we’re standing, what looks to be names have been engraved in the granite and it slowly dawns on me that what we’re all staring at is a memorial. Scattered seemingly randomly across the water are slate stepping stones in varying sizes and I can tell just by looking at them that they’re there to allow closer inspection of the sculpture.

“As no one else appears to be going to say anything,” KR states solemnly, from his position near the door, “allow me to present to you a memorial to the innocent souls who fell in the name of Infinity and Schwarz. While I would like to say I am responsible for both the thought and design I can not and I know I speak on behalf of everyone connected to Krypton Brand when I humbly thank the members of both Rosary and Crashers for their touching gesture. It is appreciated, I am confident, by both the living and the dead.”

Someone, I don’t know who, starts to slowly clap once KR has finished and within seconds we’ve all joined in. 

“It really is exquisite, isn’t it?” Aya whispers, sidling up to me as the clapping trails off and standing so close to my side that our thighs and hips are touching. “Naru was telling me before KR started to speak that the names of everyone who fell have been included on the base. Kettleman, all of the teams… Asuka…”

“I…” Knowing that there’s nothing I could possibly say that would do both the memorial and the thought behind it justice, I don’t even try and simply nod.

“Tomorrow, when it is light, we’ll lay flowers,” Aya continues softly, slipping his arm around my waist and resting his head on my shoulder. “Yohji?”

Smiling weakly, I blink back the tears I can feel threatening to form and rest my head against Aya’s. “It sounds…”

“Like a wonderful idea,” Chloé finishes, walking over and wrapping his arm around mine so that he’s holding on to me and pressing warmly against my side. “According to Finlay it looks even better in the daylight because you can see the detail in the phoenix. Detail, which, incidentally includes a band of engraved poppies around its neck, but, whatever… For what it represents I think it looks pretty perfect just as it is now.”

“You’re right,” I murmur as, their appreciation duly dispensed with for the time being, everyone begins to make their way back inside, “it is perfect and I know, because she liked both modern art and water features, that Asuka would feel honored by it. Hell, I… I know that *I* do…”

“I agree,” Aya replies, lifting his head and gazing across at the phoenix. “Chloé, did you know…”

“All of this has come as much of a surprise to me as it has you,” Chloé interrupts, squeezing my arm as he leans forward and glances across at Aya. “Oh, and should anyone feel the urge to ask, no, Keegan’s name isn’t included…”

“And nor should it have been,” Aya responds with a hint of bitterness in his voice. “But… Never mind… Are we ready to go back inside?”

“You go, you too, Chloé, if you want to,” I whisper, my gaze still drawn to the memorial. “I just want to stay here for a little while longer.”

“By yourself?” Chloé queries, making no move to release my arm. “If you wish to be alone then you just have to say.”

“I have no wish to be alone,” I reply softly, “but nor do I wish to put anyone out…”

“Shhh… You’re not putting anyone out,” Aya murmurs, returning his head to my shoulder. “We’re here because we want to be, aren’t we, Chloé?”

“Indeed,” Chloé replies. “Now… Shhh… Let us reflect and pray for those who never should have died so young.”

Grateful for both the company and everything I have, I remain silent and continue to stare at the phoenix as a sense of calm descends over me. With a memorial like this Asuka and the others will never be forgotten and, while their deaths may have been vain, there will be a part of them that forever lives on. So long as the phoenix watches over the castle and I can lay flowers at its base, I will carry the memory of Asuka with me.

Comforted by this thought, I gently break free of both Aya and Chloé’s hold on me and turn around. “Come on. Let’s go inside.”

Although Aya looks at me questioningly, neither he nor Chloé comment on my somewhat abrupt change of mind and, together, we cross the lawn to the castle. I don’t, even though it’s a struggle, look back and, as we walk inside and hang our coats on the rack by the back door, my mood begins to brighten. 

“I think KR mentioned something about everyone going to the games room, didn’t he?” Aya queries, starting to walk down the corridor. “If so, I suppose that’s where we’d better head then.”

“Mmm… Given that dinner won’t be for at least another three hours, I suspect that’s where everyone would have gone,” Chloé responds, entwining his fingers with mine and smiling as we follow Aya along the corridor. “All of us together like this, it’s just incredible, isn’t it…”

“Incredible,” I agree, trying to quash the thought of Masato no doubt lying in wait, pool cue already in his hand, for me in the games room. While, yes, I like playing pool and happen to think I’m a reasonably good player, I *don’t* particularly like getting my ass kicked at it and hope this time I have enough forethought to not make the wagers quite so freakin’ huge. 

“Poor Yohji,” Chloé states with a soft laugh as, releasing my hand, we reach the games room. “I tell you what, if Masato happens to wipe the floor with you *and* you ask me nicely, I’ll think about winning all your money back for you.”

“You play?” I question, looking at Chloé hopefully, the fact that he’s just read my mind no longer striking me as either unusual or even worthy of passing comment on. “If so, why don’t you take him on first. You know, so I can study his technique.”

Laughing, Chloé shakes his head. “Of course I play,” he retorts, a smug, confident smile stretching across his lips. “For amusement’s sake though I would rather see you lose first. You know, so I can, well, poke fun at *your* technique or lack thereof…”

“With friends like you…”

“Admit it, Yohji,” Chloé interrupts, waiting for me to enter the games room before closing the door and starting to walk over to where Faith is sitting on the sofa by the fire. “You’d be lost without me…”

Not wanting to agree, well, not *verbally* anyway, with Chloé for fear of giving his already healthy sized ego yet another boost, I don’t bother replying and gaze around the room. 

While originally a ballroom, the games room is now just that, a huge room designed solely for the purpose of meaningless entertainment. At one end of the room there is the billiard table and a fully kitted out bar while the other is dominated by both the fire place and the large screen television and all the other assorted paraphernalia -- sound system, games consoles, dvd player, video -- attached to it. Armchairs, sofas and beanbags are also dotted around the room and the overall effect of the room is one of homeliness. Unlike the rest of the castle it actually looks lived in and, like the living room at home, it’s where we usually gravitate to if we’ve got nothing mission related to work on. Even Ken, who’s not the world’s biggest fan of being indoors at the best of times, likes it. 

Right now, although there’s fourteen -- KR, Mihirogi, and Singapura having apparently decided they’ve got somewhere better to be -- of us milling around in the room it’s still far from crowded and I smile to myself as I check out what everyone is up to. Masato, as I’d known he would be, is practicing his shots on the billiard table while, also up that end of the room, Aya and Yuushi are sitting, lost in conversation, on the stools in front of the bar. Everyone else is at the other end, making the most of the fire and either talking or watching Jin as he sits, making shapes somehow appear in the flames as though by magic, on the rug in front of the fire. Michel in particular is captivated by his trick and he claps gleefully as every new shape appears in the flames. Even Yuki, although he’s trying hard to feign interest in the laptop he’s got set up before him, is watching the fire as though transfixed, a small, impressed smile lighting up his face. Ken and Finlay though, after glancing dismissively into the fire and shrugging, are busily pawing their way through the collection of Playstation games kept in the cupboard under the television and piling up their discards by Free’s feet as he sits in an armchair keeping a watchful gaze over everyone. Faith and Chloé sit together on the sofa closest to the fire, their attention fixed solely on each other. The game Ken and Finlay end up choosing could be the noisiest and goriest game ever invented and I doubt they’d even know it was being played merely meters away from them. 

Smiling to myself at the scenes of domestic bliss being played out in front of me, I turn to walk over to the billiard table and, to my surprise, come face-to-face with Aya. 

“I came to ask whether you’d like a drink,” Aya murmurs, his expression serene as he glances across at the fire. “You probably know what’s behind the bar better than I do so, if you want something, just tell me and I’ll get it for you.”

“Seeing as I think I need my wits about me, ask me again after my first game of pool,” I reply, acknowledging the cue Masato’s holding in my direction with a nod. “Yeah, yeah… I’m coming. Sheesh… He’s just hanging out to whoop my ass again, isn’t he…”

“We all need a reason to get up in the morning,” Aya responds facetiously, turning back to face me and smiling warmly. “Go on… I think your services are required at the pool table.”

“I’ll go in a sec,” I murmur, stroking Aya’s cheek as he takes a step closer to me. “I just want to ask you something first…”

“Mmm… Ask away.”

“I’m sure I know the answer already but, please, humor me… I just want to know if you’re happy…”

“Happy?” Aya echoes, frowning as he looks at me. “I… Happiness is not something that lasts. I once threw a quote in your face that, while I’m not going to tell it to you again now, beautifully puts into words how fleeting happiness is, how it can so simply be swallowed up and forgotten about.”

“Oh.” When I’m on my death bed and I’m thinking back on questions I regret ever having asked, this one, without a doubt, is going to be up there with the best of them. “Sorry… I…”

“There’s nothing to be sorry about,” Aya murmurs, his frown disappearing as he smiles softly. “I should have finished my train of thought instead of pausing. Yohji, while I may not want to confess to being happy, I am -- and to me this is actually better as it is more… encompassing --content. In fact, I am more content than I’ve ever been…” Trailing off, Aya wraps his arms around my waist and presses himself up against my chest. “What about you?”

Settling my arms around Aya’s back, I lightly kiss his forehead and grin. “Oh, I’m content,” I reply, accepting without question that if the term content works for Aya then it definitely works for me too. “Very, *very* content.”

~*~*~*~*~  
Epilogue  
~*~*~*~*~

~ New Years Eve. Rosenkrus. The Bavarian Alps. Germany. ~

“Sanctimonious old bastard,” Schuldig hisses, his face set in a scowl of displeasure as he gives the door he’d just pulled shut a vicious Nazi salute. “You’d think he’d be fucking over it by now, but, no, of course not. On and on and fucking on he goes. Listening to him you’d think we fucked up on purpose.”

“His Excellency is right to reiterate our failure to us,” Crawford replies, calmly taking his glasses off and slipping them into the top pocket of his suit jacket. “You know as well as I do, Schuldig, that we are responsible for failing to capture Faith.”

“Faith!” Schuldig spits, glaring at his partner of many years with a look of pure rage in his eyes. “That’s another fucking name I’d give anything not to ever hear again. Faith this, Faith that. He’s so Goddamn annoying that he and Rosebud fucking deserve each other. And, hey, if he’s so damn imperative to this years’ celebrations or whatever the fuck they are, why doesn’t his Excellency get off his fat ass and retrieve him himself, huh?”

Ignoring Schuldig’s diatribe, Crawford glances at his watch before starting to walk down the long, red-carpeted corridor. “I still find it interesting how he chose Chloé over his brother,” he muses as, with another look of contempt directed at the closed door, Schuldig strides after him. “While, granted, our plan failed, you have to agree that we were correct in our choice of bait.”

His petulant expression lifting, Schuldig glances at Crawford and smirks. “You’re not thinking of trying that route again, are you?” he queries with a note of hopefulness in his voice. “If so, count me in. If it involves pushing Rosebud’s buttons and getting to play with Abyssinian again then I’m there with bells on.”

“I believe they are certainly as good a place to start as any as we know Faith will come to their rescue,” Crawford replies matter-of-factly, his own expression hardening. “Who we choose to target first remains, however, to be decided on. Do not forget that there are still siblings in the picture. Nor that their team possesses two teenagers who, I’m sure you would agree, would make for easy pickings.”

“Mmm… And it would be ever so sad for all involved should Faith be incapable of saving them,” Schuldig murmurs, a malevolent and predatory smile stretching across his lips. “You know something? I’m suddenly looking forward to the coming year far more than I had been a minute ago.”

~ End ~


End file.
